The Beautiful Letdown
by snowflake912
Summary: Newly transferred to the University of Michigan amidst a tangle of rumors, Gregory House is rebellion embodied, and Lisa Cuddy has never been more captivated. House/Cuddy: an attempt at telling their early story, set in Ann Arbor.
1. The Start

Disclaimer: I'm only borrowing for fun.

Author's Note: This is my second attempt at House fanfiction. I'm utterly fascinated by the show and can't seem to write anything else at the moment. Like my previous attempt this is a House/Cuddy fic - a look at what their past could have been like. Unlike my previous attempt, this is going to be a multi-chapter story. I still haven't decided on the length. That should come later, depending on whether it will continue through to their time at PPTH or not. The title is still very tentative, and I'm still passively searching for a beta who can wrestle my moody muse. I'm just testing the waters right now and would love to hear your thoughts. The rating is subject to change eventually.

The quote at the beginning is taken from Feist's "Let It Die".

I hope this proves to be at least mildly entertaining. :-)

* * *

**ONE  
**_"The saddest part of a broken heart  
Isn't the ending so much as the start."_

_

* * *

_Gregory House was a creature of habit.

On a Monday morning in late October, he braved the chill of the Ann Arbor autumn in a white Rolling Stones t-shirt and a black cashmere scarf his mother had sent him last Christmas. His backpack unfashionably slung over his right shoulder, he stepped out of the apartment building and crossed Oak Avenue to the tunes of _No Expectations_ blaring out of his Sony headphones. The high-end headphones and accompanying Walkman were yet another gift from his mother. The occasion had been his twenty-third birthday last June, and the reason for splurging on his gifts had been her admirable attempt at overcompensation. His father wouldn't have remembered had she not passed the phone to him, more than likely pressing it into his unwilling hands. _Happy birthday, Greg,_ John House had said dryly, humoring his persistent wife. Without waiting for a response, John had given the phone back to his mother, asking her with disdain in his deep voice what cheaters deserved for their birthdays. Through a false smile he could almost visualize, she'd sighed into the receiver. _Your father's just having a bad day. I have the biggest surprise for you!_

Greg shrugged the memories off as he took the long route to Central Campus, his easy pace at odds with the biting cold of the Michigan morning. Five minutes later he was on South University Avenue, heading in the direction of Ann's Café. The owner's name was Al – short for Alfred – and Greg liked the latte he made. He liked that Al didn't make him pay extra for the generous layer of whipped cream and cocoa powder.

Pushing the glass door open, he slid the headphones off his ears so that they were slung haphazardly around his neck and welcomed the familiar sound of chimes announcing his arrival. Instinctively, his sharp blue eyes landed on the table tucked into the far left corner of the café, closest to the glass panes overlooking the quaint street. He found her bent over the twenty-ninth edition of _Gray's Anatomy_, her dark hair a charming mass of wavy locks that fell below her shoulders. Oblivious to the soft morning buzz of the busy café, she scribbled notes in the margins of her brand new book, her quick hands small and delicate-looking. The usual plain white mug of unsweetened coffee made a short trip to her mouth before being returned to its rightful place on the pale wooden table. He allowed that she was by far the favorite part of his morning ritual, and she was as much a creature of habit as he was. The thought made him smile in amusement as he made his way to the counter and greeted Al with the familiarity of an old friend.

"Latte, lots of sugar, extra whipped cream," Al recited, accepting the proffered cash with a grin.

He thanked him and found his usual table unoccupied. His backpack fell to the floor with a thud. Pulling the latest medical journal out of the bag, he slid into the unpadded wooden chair and flattened the unkempt magazine against the table. He read and watched her intermittently, noting the same little things he discovered about her every morning. She had smoky blue eyes that were often absorbed with the morning's reading material. Her face was finely-boned, cheekbones arrogantly high, the line of her jaw well-defined and softened by plump pink lips. She drank coffee like normal people drank water. Twice over the past two months, she'd indulged in a blueberry muffin. When baffled by what she was reading, a distinct little frown would tug at the graceful arcs of her black eyebrows, and she would twirl her pen uneasily between thumb and forefinger. Around her neck, she wore a long-chained golden locket that was always tucked beneath her shirt which led him to believe it was more a sentimental piece than a decorative item. She had a knack for balancing comfort and fashion, and the color red did wicked things to her slender body.

The sweater she wore this Monday hung coyly off one shoulder, baring an indulging amount of creamy shoulder. It was white and almost sheer, but she wore a tube top under it that lessened the nude effect his mind had concocted.

If she noticed his fascination with watching her, she never made it obvious.

"A little cold for that shirt," Amanda – Al's only waitress – remarked in greeting, placing his latte before him.

He snapped his gaze away from the dark-haired girl and encountered Amanda's knowing smile. "I hail from Alaska," he lied and winked when she rolled her eyes disbelievingly.

"You hailed from Texas last week," she reminded him, planting her hands on her hips.

Greg shrugged unapologetically. "Don't have the accent for it," he explained dismissively and took a sip of the latte. A dollop of whipped cream clung to his nose, and Amanda reached into one of her apron's pockets to dig out a napkin. She handed it to him with a small fond smile. "How's George?" he inquired, and her smile became a little more radiant at the mention of her five-year-old son. At thirty, Amanda was a single mother who looked much too young to be either.

"Hating school," she admitted, chuckling softly.

He scoffed and glanced out of the corners of his eyes when the dark-haired girl closed _Gray's Anatomy_ and laid it to the side. "The kid's a genius," he asserted.

Amanda shook her head at him, dark eyes full of laughter. "She's not leaving yet," she teased.

His eyes widened in mock surprise. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm sure you don't," she told him, looking over her shoulder at the sound of her name. "Duty calls," she sighed, tucking a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear. She followed the direction of his gaze, a fanciful smile playing against her lips. "Her name is Lisa by the way," she said before turning around to meet Al at the counter. He handed her another tray of orders to distribute.

Greg leaned back into his chair, sipping contentedly from the candy-sweet beverage. _Lisa_. His eyes touched on her hair, her lips, the tantalizing curve of that naked shoulder, and he tried to associate the name with the strangely familiar features. It made her seem like less of a vision, more flesh and blood, names and lives. He wasn't sure he liked the lucid feeling elicited by her name. Shifting his attention to an article on diagnosing a rare case of lupus, he read through the two blocks of paragraphs as she flipped through a stapled wad of papers. Midway through another article on a new surgical technique, he was distracted by Bill Winters ambling down the street, clearly aiming for the café.

Bill was a messy tangle of limbs and books when he barreled through the door, the chimes rattling furious protests at the disturbance. He heaved a great dramatic breath and made a show of walking over to Greg's table to deposit his books next to the latte. He dropped onto the chair to his right with little grace. "Dude, I have the craziest week ahead of me," he complained, glancing around the café with only a modicum of interest. "Oh," he breathed in curious realization. "Still looking and not touching," he observed, having picked up on the curious habit on a Wednesday morning two weeks before.

"Hm," Greg hummed in confirmation, watching as she straightened out the papers and tucked them into the thick book.

"You could talk to her," he suggested, grabbing the discarded latte and gulping the last quarter.

"And risk losing brain cells when she disappoints me with her one-digit IQ?" he asked mockingly, shoving a hand into his crew-cut brown hair.

Bill let out a surprised chuckle as if he still hadn't quite adapted to the shockingly rude things Gregory House could say. "Keep the conversation minimal," he joked. "Get her out of your system. You know she won't say no to you," he stated matter-of-factly, brown eyes following Lisa as she came to her feet and tugged a patterned scarf out of her large purse. The warm colors of the rich material complimented her plain sweater and skinny black leggings. She draped it around her neck artistically, pulled her hair from underneath it and slung the golden metallic strap of her quilted purse over her shoulder. Bending slightly at the waist, she picked up the stack of books and papers from the table and held them against her chest. "Killer legs," Bill whispered in awe, his voice almost reverent.

"And _killer _ass," Greg added, looking away when she sensed his gaze and regarded him curiously. She didn't pause for long and waved goodbye at Al and Amanda before sweeping out of the café and hurrying along South University Avenue. When she disappeared around a corner, he turned to Bill and grinned winsomely. "You were saying?"

"She won't say no, House," he asserted, rolling his eyes in an intimation of boredom.

"Probably," Greg agreed, flipping his worn copy of Medicine Monthly to the cover page and tucking it into the backpack by his feet.

"Then why have you been watching her like a lovesick child for two months?" he challenged, raising his eyebrows dubiously.

"Because it's fun," he rationalized, and it sounded like a perfectly sound reason to him. He didn't give the habit much thought, instead falling into it almost subconsciously. He hadn't meant to make watching her into an activity he'd indulge in every morning. "What are you doing here so early?" he asked, successfully putting an end to the conversation about Lisa.

"Crazy week," he replied miserably. "I'm meeting the TA for my anatomy class at the library in fifteen minutes."

Greg was well-versed in anatomy, but he didn't offer to help, having decided he was done with assisting and teaching since his departure from Johns Hopkins last spring. "I'm meeting Nicole at her dorm in," he paused, consulting his wristwatch. "Damn, three minutes," he swore, and stood up quickly, backpack in hand. Bill followed suit, trailing behind him as he mock-saluted Al and winked a goodbye at Amanda before striding out of Ann's Café.

"I can foresee a bitch fit," Bill predicted, laughing as he hurried to keep up with Greg's long strides.

"Hilarious," Greg retorted, his voice devoid of amusement.

"What did she take this time?" he asked, finally falling into step beside him.

Greg eyed the shorter man thoughtfully. Nicole was becoming mundanely predictable. "My Pink Floyd t-shirt," he answered. She'd known it was his favorite black t-shirt when she'd worn it to bed at his apartment on Saturday night. She'd left the next morning in it, pulling her own jacket over the large shirt and promising to give it back to him on Monday. He'd been too sleepy and hung-over to argue, settling for a dismissive wave before pulling a pillow over his head and going back to sleep.

"This only encourages her," Bill observed, his manner unconcerned, but Greg knew him well enough to discern the underlying advice. "You know she tells everyone she's your girlfriend," he continued, driving his point home.

"I don't think anyone believes her," Greg uttered, nonchalant as ever.

"You make-out with her at practically every party," Bill argued.

Annoyed, Greg glared at him sideways. "She's hot," he reasoned and pulled the forgotten headphones off his neck, repositioning them over his ears. Fishing the Walkman out of his bag, he hit play and returned it to the designated pocket. The opening tunes to _Sympathy for the Devil_ began to play loudly, blocking out the city noise.

He saw Bill say something that sounded like, "that's really rude, House."

Unrepentant in the least, he slapped his friend's back amiably. "Later, Billy," he said loudly and veered to the right where Helen Newberry's House was tucked into its cheerful little garden.

----

"What do you mean the midterm's today?" he snapped impatiently, the anger in his voice making her flinch.

She clutched the strap of her hot pink purse tensely, her posture defensive. "That's what Jody told me this morning. She's in your endocrinology class," Nicole repeated, taking bigger steps to walk ahead of him in an effort to hide the hurt look on her face. Jody, apparently, lived down the hall at her dormitory, and she'd been studying for the exam in question for weeks.

In a misguided act of mutiny, he'd skipped most of his lectures over the past two months, only attending the ones he thought would be interesting and the ones where attendance was mandatory. The endocrinology lecture was in a large hall where taking attendance was too cumbersome to attempt. "Did she mention what time it is?" he asked in a controlled voice.

"It's at noon in the lecture hall," she muttered petulantly.

"In one hour," he clarified more to himself than to her stiff back. There was no salvaging the immense fuck up. "That's fucking great," he swore.

They were both quiet as they walked to Central Campus. When they reached the building where her next class was, she turned around and looked up at him – both figuratively and literally – with pale green eyes. "You're Gregory House," she began, her quiet tone meant to appease him. "You'll ace it anyway." Her smile said she believed that wholeheartedly.

He fought the urge to snap at her again and forced a faint smile. "We'll see," he replied, clearly unconvinced, but she barely noticed, already preoccupied with better-defining their relationship.

Closing the distance between them, she placed her hands on the insides of his elbows. "Good luck kiss," she said as an excuse for one of her hands moving to the back of his neck and tugging his head towards her. He went with the movement, albeit reluctantly, and kissed her lightly, not quite drunk enough to ignore the limitations of physical attraction.

Stepping back to measure the thwarted look on her face, he chucked her chin lightly. "Thanks, babe. I have to go," he announced, but before he could leave, she caught his wrist, her hand warm against his skin.

"Are you coming to Julia's house party tonight?" The hopeful light in her eyes eclipsed whatever disappointment she felt at his unenthusiastic response to her kiss. With the soft breeze tousling her golden hair endearingly, she looked like the subject of an artist's portrait – classically beautiful, faultless.

He took his hand out of hers and tucked it into his pocket. "Yeah, a little late though."

She laughed coquettishly. "You're always late, Greg."

Giving her a parting grin, he made a gesture towards the entrance of the building they were standing outside. "I'll see you later," he promised, watching as she nodded, blew him a kiss and fell into the crowd of students filtering into the building.

----

"Of course he'll show up for the midterm," Angie Wheeler decided leaning against Lisa's desk pensively as she read the time off the large black clock on the wall. "He can't afford to fail this class," she insisted, using her fingers to count six minutes.

Lisa Cuddy released a pent up frustrated breath. "_I_ can't afford to fail my other classes because I decided to audit this class for some guy," she paused to rifle through her notes for an elusive definition she couldn't seem to memorize. Reading it one last time, she tucked the notebook beneath her chair and shifted her gaze to Angie's amused features. "A guy, by the way, who never bothered to show up to class," she continued and dug three identical pens out of her purse, splaying them on the table before her. Over the summer of his transfer from Johns Hopkins to the University of Michigan, she had been regaled with stories of the legendary Gregory House who was often described as a skeptical genius with an endless trail of broken hearts to his name. Having an admitted weakness for bad reputations and rumored genius, she'd managed to find out which classes he was registered for and then unthinkingly signed herself up to audit his endocrinology class. The messy feat hadn't proven to be fruitful. She was yet to meet the notorious Greg House, whose name she heard repeatedly in conjunction with the names of some of the most popular girls or the most insane parties.

"He'll show up eventually," Angie repeated, her eyes scanning the crowd of tense students milling about the lecture hall and mulling over their notes. Evidently, he was nowhere in sight because she shook her head and shrugged.

"Everyone please take your seats," Professor Adams called out loudly, spurring everyone into immediate frenzied action.

"Good luck!" Angie whispered before taking the seat right in front of hers.

The exam booklets were distributed in a flurry of snappy movements. Receiving hers, Lisa methodically counted the pages and confirmed their number with the one written on the front page. She was carefully reading the first question when a tall figure loomed over her desk, the long graceful fingers of a masculine hand touching one of her pens. Looking up in question, she was surprised to find the guy from the café, who had the most unnervingly intense blue gaze, staring down at her.

"Can I borrow one of your pens or are you going to use them all?" he mock whispered, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of several surrounding students. They made displeased noises at being distracted and went back to reading their booklets. "Also, I haven't studied so if you could slide your paper to the right…" he trailed off on a whisper that was barely loud enough for her ears. A cheeky grin lit his eyes to an impossibly bright shade of cobalt blue.

Too stunned to voice her objects, she marveled at the amount of gall he had.

She was still gaping at him when Professor Adams came to stand beside her desk. "Can I help you, sir?" he asked with a wary frown, prompting Blue Eyes to straighten to his full height. He was arrestingly tall, and he stood his ground as he gazed back into the professor's suspicious dark eyes.

She suppressed a groan of aggravation, looking between the two men for the verdict of their little standoff.

Blue Eyes lifted her pen – without her approval – and held it up at face level. "Borrowing a pen," he murmured, this time his voice really quiet, but the smile he flashed at the elder man was heavy with false cheer.

Professor Adams looked at her for confirmation, and she nodded dutifully, eager to have the entire ordeal over with. "Good, please have a seat now," he ordered, thrusting his aging chin in the direction of the seat behind hers. Blue Eyes nodded and obediently slipped between the chair and the little table attached to it, his long legs jutting awkwardly in the cramped space.

Turning back in her seat, she read the first question again, frustrated when she couldn't seem to make sense of the words, far too distracted by his untimely presence. She took in a deep calming breath and read it one more time. Much to her relief, the answer popped into her mind almost instantly. Writing it down neatly, she moved to the next question.

For thirty minutes it went smoothly enough, and then she felt a sneakered foot connect with the back of her plastic chair. Rudely reminded of his presence, she discreetly slid her paper to the right edge of her desk and scooted to the far left, wondering what possessed her to let Blue Eyes cheat off her midterm. Forcing the thought away, she began reading the snippet of an article after which there was another set of questions.

Time flew by without any interruptions after that, except for another kick that prompted her to inch further to the left and write in bigger letters. When the assistants began collecting the booklets, she had already reviewed her exam twice, and she handed it in confident that she had aced it. Searching for Angie, she found her engrossed in a heated discussion with one of the assistants. She was barely out of her seat when she found Blue Eyes standing before her, rubbing a hand over the one day's worth of dark stubble on the strong slant of his jaw.

"Thanks for the pen," he said, giving her an easy smile that had the most enticing character – stuck somewhere between grateful and devious. He handed her the blue pen and his hand lingered against hers before he released it to her possession. The touch was electrifying, but his casual countenance told her he was either oblivious or adept at pretense. "You got number three wrong by the way," he mentioned, slinging his backpack to his chest in order to rifle through it. He took out a modern set of headphones and hooked them around his neck.

No longer enticed, she frowned at him darkly. "No, I didn't," she countered.

He looked back at her in surprise, as if he hadn't expected the vehement negation, and his smile became tickled as he fiddled with a black Walkman. "The woman who isn't pregnant and has milk production from her breasts wouldn't show a lack of growth hormone suppression because she doesn't have acromegaly," he stated with a clever twinkle to his disarming gaze.

She lifted a challenging eyebrow at his confident claim. "Why not?" she posed.

"Acromegaly in adults is usually accompanied by soft tissue and joint problems," he explained, and he was fairly alight with interest as he spoke.

Lisa parted her lips to speak, and then pursed them thoughtfully. He was right. Damn him. She sliced an accusing look at his devilishly handsome smug face. "I thought you hadn't studied for this exam," she remarked wryly.

He shifted so that the backpack slid over his right shoulder to rest against his back and lifted his arms above his head in faux surrender. "I didn't study," he pledged, looking over her head with narrowed eyes.

She wondered what had captured his attention when Angie appeared at her side, fairly bouncing with enthusiasm. To Lisa's surprise, she stuck her right hand out towards Blue Eyes, who took it in what looked like a firm handshake. He had fascinating hands. "Hi, I'm Angie," she introduced herself with a bright smile.

The grin he flashed at her was honed over years of practice, designed to melt hearts on the spot. "Greg," he replied slowly, letting her hand go.

It dawned on her much too late. She stared at him slack-jawed for a few seconds and then remembered to look away. Blue Eyes, who was a regular at Ann's Café and chatted up Amanda on a daily basis, was the renowned rebel. Blue Eyes who had the most graceful, captivating hands, piercing eyes and disarming humor was her sought-after bad boy in the flesh. When she tuned in to their conversation, they were talking about one of the exam's questions.

"I copied that one," he confessed, flashing a bashful smile at her. Somehow it was anything but shy.

She took in his white t-shirt with the grayscale lips and tongue Rolling Stones logo, his faded Levi's and worn black Chuck Taylors. Even though he was well-dressed, everything about his manners suggested defiance, and she felt drawn to him like a moth to a flame that would inevitably burn it alive. "Apparently, you didn't really need to cheat," she reminded him.

He looked at her with a sly grin. "Ah, your voice is back," he noted tauntingly. "Interesting choice of pens by the way; I love the variety."

She looked at the identical pens still clutched in her fist and rolled her eyes. "Back up pens," she clarified, hating how the way the t-shirt defined his chest utterly distracted her. Her traitorous eyes kept drifting back to his torso.

"How likely is it that two of them will run out on the same day?" he wondered rhetorically.

"Almost as likely as someone walking into an exam without a pen," she retorted, meeting his sardonic gaze evenly.

"Ouch," he grumbled and held a hand to his heart. "That was really hurtful," he pouted.

Angie giggled at his theatrics, clearly awed by his effusive personality. Ignoring them both, Lisa collected her purse and notebook, slipping the latter into the former. Her pens clattered against each other as she dropped them into her Chanel purse. "I should go," she declared, stopping suddenly to glower up at his towering frame. "You could have told me about number three," she told him with an irritated frown.

He frowned back at her, his expression much darker than her own, but it was – like everything else he did – laced with sarcasm. "What? And risk you getting a higher grade?" he whispered, his appalled expression oddly comical. "I have a reputation to uphold," he said seriously, but then one corner of his lips rose slightly and she was almost sure it was a joke.

"Seriously?" she muttered incredulously.

"No, of course not. I tried to tell you, but you thought I couldn't see your paper well enough and started writing in alarmingly large letters. Your paper should be a great optic test for Professor Adams. Lots of variation in text size," he teased.

She cracked a smile at the truth in that and shook her head at him. With a heavy sigh, she made a move to step past him, but he blocked her path immediately, a frown denting his brow.

"You never told me your name," Greg said, the quick words urgent, as if he believed she would sidestep him and walk away.

As it was, he was standing uncomfortably close, his scent – a combination of soap and softener – wrapping around her. Every inch of her was acutely aware of him. "Lisa," she replied, her voice embarrassingly husky.

His eyes darkened with some unidentified emotion that was swept away under the force of his roguish grin. "It was nice meeting you, Lisa," he declared, his voice so inappropriately suggestive that she fought the urge to blush.

"You, too," she responded hastily, mumbling a goodbye to both him and Angie before making her escape.

* * *

A/N: Reviews are happy things. :-)


	2. Kissed

Disclaimer: I'm only borrowing for some random play.

Author's Note: Wow, this took me a while to write. However cliché this may sound, real life has been keeping me very busy (new jobs do that to you). It's been pretty hectic to say the least, and I've barely had time to sit down and write. And whatever time I did have, my muse was off in its own little world, abandoning me to the terrible clutches of writer's block. Anyway, after a lot of that, I finally managed to write this much-tweaked version of the second chapter. This was also very motivated by the fact that the current storyline on the show is depressing me beyond reason and I've had to resort to my imagination to make House and Cuddy slightly as fun as they used to be. But I won't bore you with my rant on how displeased I am with how things are going on-screen. Here's to hoping some of you are still interested in where this is going, and a HUGE thank you to all of you for the reviews you left on the first chapter. You've been more wonderful than I deserve.

One thing though, Ladyluck523 (thanks!) pointed out that House would be around 26 in this story instead of 23, so I'll be going with that. Let's pretend last chapter it said 26. Also I know on the show it seems like he went to Michigan first then JHU, but since I'm utterly unconvinced someone could go from MU to JHU (especially in med school) I'm sticking with him transferring to MU after JHU.

For the record, I'm still beta-less. Any mistakes are my own.

That's all for now! Read on and please enjoy!

* * *

**TWO**  
"_He kissed me, and now I am somebody else."_

_

* * *

_From a distance, the first apparent thing about the two-story townhouse was an atrocious large plant with dangerously pointy leaves proudly displayed on the porch. The second most glaring feature was a fresh coat of paint the color of boiled egg yolks, which made the house seem narrower than it really was. There were two girls on the unlit porch, whispering and giggling as they shared a cigarette that glowed like a joint, but Lisa had gone into full denial mode as they neared the boisterous party. Cyndi Lauper's _Girls Just Want to Have Fun_ spilled along the rain-slicked street like a cheerful streak of misplaced sunlight.

She tugged at the lapels of her brown leather jacket and gathered them against her chest to ward off the night chill. It had been raining doggedly all afternoon, but the incessant torrents of rain had faded to a light half-hearted drizzle as evening neared. By eleven o'clock, the night sky was clear, the light breeze stingingly cold and the air heavy with residue moisture. Angie had decided it was a sign that they should attend Julia's party, which apparently Blue Eyes – Gregory House – had invited them to after Lisa had left them chatting in the endocrinology lecture hall. Lisa remembered his words as Angie had delivered them: _there's a party tonight at Julia Wheaton's townhouse. You should come._ He'd paused then to smile convincingly, and she could vividly imagine just how convincing that sinister smile could be. _Bring your friend_. Like an afterthought or a formality, she mused, her lips twitching irritably, but he didn't strike her as the kind of man to be constrained by social norms and niceties. That allayed her flagging courage as she tucked her freezing hands into the shallow pockets of her sister's Gucci jacket. Her bare legs were almost numb, the bright cerulean blue sweater dress covering only the upper half of her thighs.

She almost wished she had worn something warmer.

"You think he's already here?" Angie asked, her voice dulled by the quiet whistle of wind racing along the street. Her silver-studded black boots moved in sync with Lisa's feet. The even pattern of their footsteps was soothingly consistent.

She listened to it for a few seconds until the silence became inappropriate and she could feel Angie's probing gaze on her face. Lisa looked up obligingly and offered a noncommittal shrug, feeling ridiculous for having dragged herself all across campus to attend a party she wasn't invited to. _One step below endocrinology class stalking_, she thought wryly. "Doesn't strike me as the early type," she replied finally to which Angie nodded in acquiescence. They were quiet as they climbed the slippery flight of stairs, edging past the oblivious girls and towards the open doorway.

"You think his girlfriend's here?"

The words stilled her. Pausing at the threshold, she let out a long sigh and pressed her back to the yellow doorjamb, leaning against it heavily. This was stupid, she reasoned, chewing her bottom lip nervously. She should just turn back and return to her dorm, read her anatomy notes one last time and go to bed early. And fantasize about all the heart-stopping things he could do with that quick mouth. Squeezing her eyes shut, she massaged her temples and silently ordered her conscience to stop pretending like she _could_ walk away. She was much too enthralled by the notorious bad boy and far too attracted to him. "I keep forgetting about her," she admitted, sliding her hands into the raven curls cascading about her face.

Angie hovered beside her, one foot on the porch, the other firmly planted in the entrance hall where two wooden chairs bore the burden of two dozen raincoats and jackets. She peered into the dimly lit hallway and then shifted her keen gaze to study Lisa's frowning face. "Don't look so stricken," she teased. "I hear it doesn't stop him." She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Lisa blushed to the roots of her hair and covered her cheeks with both hands. "I am _not_ trying to… you know," she hissed in mortification, her words muffled by her cold fingers. She _wasn't _trying_, _but God the very thought made her feel light-headed.

Angie rolled her eyes and crossed her arms as she mimicked Lisa's pose against the opposite doorjamb. "Please," she muttered under her breath. "You were staring at him like a cat in heat," she drawled, mimicking her wide-eyed countenance humorously. "Unless you thought his chest could talk, you had no reason to be gazing at it so dreamily."

"I liked his shirt?" she offered lamely and bit the inside of her cheek. "Was it that obvious? He was just so infuriating and exciting. And very, very tall. One minute I wanted to pull his hair, and the next I just…" she trailed off and studied the dry floor beneath her feet, her rambling leaving them both pensive. When she looked up at Angie, the other girl was smiling in unconcealed amusement. "This is very bad," she whispered and glanced back at the two girls still huddled on the porch steps, worry sketched across her puckered brow.

"Doubt they're seeing anything besides unicorns at the moment," Angie murmured reassuringly. Lisa's eyes went wide in horror. "Please don't tell me you were in denial about the joint," she giggled. "Come on," she announced impatiently, reaching for her hand and grabbing it firmly. "You _need_ to loosen up," she decided. Her hand still securely wrapped around the other girl's wrist, Angie tugged her over the threshold into the narrow hallway with the buried chairs and their thin battered legs.

It was much warmer inside. The music was not as loud as she'd thought it would be. Beyond the hall, the living area – which consisted of the entire first floor – was furnished with an assortment of mismatched couches and ragged curtains that had seen far better days. A modestly sized crowd milled about comfortably, creating an animated buzz of conversation set to the cheerful ambiance of modern rock and roll. She slipped her jacket off her shoulders and laid it over Angie's, falling into step behind her exuberant friend as they sidled into the party unnoticed.

Angie found the liquor table in record time. Taking charge, she selected a brand of cheap vodka and crammed three ice cubes into each of two plastic cups before making their drinks. Lisa shifted nervously at her side, using Angie's preoccupation to freely peruse the crowd in search of the subject of her fascination. As expected, he was nowhere in sight, but her gaze snagged on Nicole Donovan perched on the blue couch in the very heart of the room, looking every bit like a faultless porcelain doll. She smothered the smidgen of envy that welled in her chest, gratefully taking the cup Angie was thrusting at her. She sipped the cool liquid automatically, wincing when she registered its potent taste.

"This is like ninety percent alcohol," she sputtered, tilting the cup to peer into its clear contents.

"More like ninety-nine," Angie rectified calmly and smiled a complacent smile. "Drink up. You're going to need it," she advised.

Lisa took a longer sip and coughed lightly. "Is there anything _besides_ vodka in this?" she wondered.

"A touch of Sprite," she replied, coffee brown eyes twinkling mischievously. "Only to make it seem less like a bad idea," she confessed with a sheepish shrug as her gaze flicked over the crowd expertly. "The man of the hour is missing in action," she sighed and continued to search tirelessly. "Where _is_ he?" she murmured, absently tipping her cup against her lips. She paused, plastic cup still caught between her teeth. "Oh, look at that," she spoke into the cup, her eyes brightening with what Lisa had come to recognize as trouble. "The very blond, very handsome Jason Green just smiled at me."

Lisa groaned and drank greedily from the diminishing contents of her cup, already inured to the sharp tang of uncensored alcohol. "Let me guess, he's coming in our direction, and he'll be the flavor of the week," she predicted.

Angie wrinkled her nose at her and grinned with unabashed pleasure. "Flavor of the night," she corrected.

She smiled at that and shook her head just as Jason Green, who was fairly tall and well-built, came up beside her. "Hello, ladies," he greeted them with a nervous smile.

Angie's answering smile must have subdued his apprehension because he relaxed enough to introduce himself and offer his hand to be shaken. Their handshake lingered, and when their hands fell back to their sides, they fell into a comfortable conversation about Ann Arbor, the weather, their majors and the best parties on campus. Lisa pitched in every now and then to pretend like she wasn't completely absorbed by the thoughts of a stranger and the way his penetrating gaze electrified her senses.

She remembered him from mornings at Al's café – a vague figure in the corner, watching her like it was part of his reading regime. The gaze – indiscreet as it was – had never made her uncomfortable. On some days, it had elicited her curiosity, but the early morning would bleed into the events of a longer day, forgotten or dismissed. After her second week on campus, he had become so much a part of Al's that she stopped finding it strange.

It began to rain again. Madonna's _Like A _Virgin drowned the soft pitter-patter against the roof, but the windows above the blue couch were splattered with random swirling patterns of water droplets.

They must have stood there for more than an hour with Jason Green's animated speech coloring her alcohol-haze with laughter. Angie was standing close to him, her hand on his sleeve as she breathlessly stifled another bout of flirtatious giggles.

The next thing she knew, it was half past midnight, and her gaze was drawn to the doorway like an iron filing to a two-ton magnet.

He cleared the entrance with long impatient strides, brown hair darkened and ruffled by a combination of rain and wind, endearingly mussed. He was taller than she remembered, still defying the cold in the same white t-shirt and carelessly knotted black scarf. His gait was easy as he delved into the crowd, nodding dismissively at exuberant greetings that frequently involved strangers' hands landing on his broad rain-splattered shoulders. If the narrowing of his sharp eyes was any indication, the overture into his personal space irritated him.

By then, she had two of Angie's bad-idea drinks in her system and a third in her hand. Jason Green's chattering faded to an idle sound that melted into the background as she followed his progress through the living room – all of her senses utterly engaged. He stopped at the side of a shorter, stocky man with dirty blond hair and a boyishly round face, William Winters. Their whispered conversation made him laugh heartily, the dimple in his cheek apparent through the uncared for stubble. He was charmingly unkempt, in a way that made her want to comb her fingers through his disheveled hair and straighten the skewed scarf around his neck.

She didn't know the exact moment Nicole Donovan caught sight of him, but she was standing before him seconds later, arms slung around his neck, lips pressed to the alluring slant at the corner of his mouth. His left hand landed on her hip like they'd done this hundreds of times before, and Lisa thought the monstrous feeling inside of her was terribly close to jealousy.

She forced her gaze away long enough to listen to Jason recount his short-lived foray to the backstage area of a Duran Duran concert. Her lips balanced a faux smile as her gaze found him again.

He had taken his hand off her waist and was running it through his damp hair distractedly. Julia Wheaton, the host of the entire affair, had joined their little clique. Drawn by his notoriety, she stood close to his left elbow, talking animatedly into the crooked circle they formed. For a few seconds, he was the picture of attentiveness, chin tilted downwards, eyebrows appropriately drawn, but then he lifted his head, shattering the pretense. He looked bored and jaded, like one who had seen too much in too short a time. Quick, clever eyes scoured the dozens of faces, never lingering in their erratic pursuit, and inevitably, they encountered her riveted gaze.

She had deluded herself into believing his eyes were mundanely blue, but there was nothing mundane about the cobalt depths that glimmered across the – suddenly – stifling room like the untarnished color at the heart of a crystal – clear, piercing, cool. Under the unbending intensity of his stare, she forgot to breathe for a small eternity. It couldn't have been longer than a couple of minutes when he broke the silent communication by allowing a lop-sided smile to tilt the line of his lips and lowered his head in a nod of recognition. She tried to smile back but her lips trembled, and her eyes shied away gratefully when Angie spoke her name, giving her the perfect excuse to catch her breath. She didn't listen to a word the other girl said but gathered that she and Jason would be back in ten minutes at most. She barely registered their held hands as she swiveled away from the crowd, resting her hands on the tabletop for a few seconds before running them through her wavy hair.

She heaved a deep breath to relieve her frenzied senses.

"I _love _the dress."

Despite the fact that she'd only known him for a day, his low scratchy voice was unmistakable as it slithered across her spine like warm liquid. Her heart slammed into her ribcage in a vain attempt to rattle the carefully arranged bones. Ignoring the incessant thumping in her ears, she turned around to face him. The three inch heels of her boots barely altered the height difference between them. He still towered above her and seemed to relish the advantage as he took her in from head to feet and back up again.

He was smiling when he met her arched eyebrows with twinkling blue eyes. "You came," he noted, and the statement was more curious than surprised like she was a riddle he would enjoy solving. "I wasn't sure you would," he admitted and took a step towards her.

She reflexively moved backwards, swallowing tightly when the edge of the liquor table hit the backs of her thighs, effectively trapping her. He ignored her skittish reaction and leaned closer, peering over her shoulder like he didn't notice that his scarf brushed against her chin and the scruff on his face caught on a strand of her hair. With a hum of approval, his arm reached past her, lean defined bicep brushing against her arm. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the material of her dress, and he smelled like rain and shampoo. The combination made her want to nuzzle her nose against his neck where his wet hair curled against the flushed warm skin.

"I've always wanted to go to a house party," she blurted unthinkingly, and the image dissolved in lieu of her embarrassment.

He stepped back all too swiftly, and his once empty hand was curled around the green neck of a beer bottle. Bringing the sweating bottle to his lips, he chugged a mouthful of beer and regarded her with an amused glint to his expressive gaze. "I'm flattered," he teased, absently swinging the long-neck between thumb and forefinger.

She frowned. "That's not what I meant," she argued and crossed her arms beneath her breasts in a defensive gesture.

Ignoring her vehement denial, his brazen gaze followed the dipping neckline of her dress before his eyes shot back to hers. "I really love the dress," he murmured, magnificent blue eyes alight with appreciation.

"Does this unique brand of charm work on anyone?" she inquired, feigning indignation even though she was unduly flattered by his unsavory audacity. One black wing of an eyebrow rose sardonically.

He nodded earnestly enough to draw an involuntary smile from her. "All the time," he answered. "Is it working now?"

At her shrug, he lifted his eyebrows in question. "A little," she admitted, and he favored her with a dimpled grin.

He lifted the bottle to his lips and guzzled like an athlete after a marathon. When the mouth of the bottle was safely hooked between two knuckles, he studied her with a shallow dent in his brow. "Funny habit, the pens," he said finally as if he was trying to associate her admittedly bold dress with the compulsive three-pen-bearing girl from class.

She almost laughed. On a good day, she could hardly combine the two. The three-pen-bearing girl had wanted to review her anatomy notes and turn in early, but there she was toe-to-toe with Gregory House, feeling more alive than she ever remembered feeling. Her every nerve ending was humming a quiet chorus to Queen's _Under Pressure_ as it filled Julia Wheaton's townhouse. "Funny habit, not studying for exams," she tossed back, striving to sound just as clinically pensive as he did.

He smirked with something that glinted suspiciously like approval, but before she could analyze his expression, he sketched an exaggerated fake bow, hiding his face. "I owe you."

"There you are!"

Having been completely absorbed by him, Lisa was startled by the intrusion of the eager voice. It belonged to Nicole Donovan, whose arm was already roped around his possessively. He had straightened back to his full height, his expression morphing from playful to somber in no longer than a second.

"I found him," Nicole was saying over her shoulder. Julia and Bill appeared almost instantly, coming to stand on either side of the pair like an infallible line of defense. They made her feel claustrophobic, especially when Nicole measured her with sharp green eyes that spoke far too loudly for it to be polite.

Greg smiled at his girlfriend indulgently. "This is Lisa," he said by way of introduction, and the slight lisp that curled his tongue made her feel funny.

The three of them muttered their names amidst awkward greetings. Bill Winter's eyes narrowed on her curiously, but whatever he wanted to say was interrupted by Julia's exuberant announcement.

"House is doing body shots!" she said, loud enough to turn a few heads.

Greg House wasn't the type of man to succumb to something as human as embarrassment. He looked slightly miffed but otherwise unruffled. "No, I'm not," he said simply. "Not tonight."

Lisa hated the way Nicole's fingers were pressed into his forearm. "Come on, baby, it'll be fun!" Nicole pouted, full lips puckered delightfully.

He frowned at Bill's barely audible chuckle, and then he looked at her for a few seconds longer than society found acceptable. The subtle shift of his gaze from her eyes to her neck made her feel warm all over. He smiled suddenly, a bright convincing smile that was wickedly unsettling. "Alright, just one," he faux-sighed, and Nicole hugged his arm gleefully.

"Alright what?"

She had become too familiar with Jason Green's voice to not recognize it the instant it made its reappearance. Beside him, Angie was gaping at her with a large Cheshire cat grin.

"House is doing body shots!" Julia exclaimed, more assertive now that the man in question looked ready to do any sinful bidding.

A small cheer went around, and Angie stepped forward, dark eyes wide with wonder. "So that's how one becomes a legend on campus."

He slanted a half-smile in her direction and touched his forefinger to an imaginary hat. "I try," he teased.

"Who will be the lucky recipient?" Bill asked sarcastically, and his eyes were dancing as he stared challengingly at his friend.

Greg met the other man's stare before he turned the full blast of his enticing gaze on her. "I owe you," he said. "This would be payback – makes us even," he rationalized, but his smile was the soul of seduction. There was nothing reasonable about his heavy-lidded gaze and parted lips. There was nothing reasonable about the murderous glare on Nicole's face.

When she felt composed enough to speak, she gave him a nonchalant smile, giving into the compulsive girl who carried three identical pens. "That would be more like a punishment," she rectified, and despite the disappointment that dimmed his gaze, she could tell that he understood her need to triumph in their war of words.

Either that, or he had other plans.

He shrugged – a suit-yourself gesture that was as blasé as his chilly gaze. "Well, then, who wants a body shot?" He loosened the scarf around his neck and impatiently tugged it off.

She couldn't count on two hands the number of girls that offered themselves to his European-learned experiment, and she wasn't surprised. Had she been more receptive to public attention and censure, she would have let him run his tongue down her neckline in a roomful of rumormongers. As it was, she stood by and watched Nicole glower her competitors away, easily winning the spot of volunteer. There was a flurry of movement that involved clearing a circle around the couple while Julia disappeared to fetch the supplies. Nicole relieved him of the scarf, carrying it over to lay it over her purse on the blue couch.

Angie's arm was slung around her shoulders before she could register her presence.

"You're going to regret this until the day you die," she whispered dramatically and patted her arm.

"Shut up," she whispered back, making a conscious decision to stop clamping her teeth together.

Julia came back with a bottle of tequila, a shot glass, a salt shaker and a slice of lime. Lisa had never witnessed a body shot before, but on a warm summer night back in New York, while curled in their father's den with strawberry smoothies, her sister had told her they were _outrageous_. Nicole was smiling a little nervously when Greg took the lime and salt from their host. With his thumb, he took the cap off the shaker and handed it back to Julia. Standing in the middle of a growing circle of spectators, Nicole shifted her weight from foot to foot as he pressed the citrusy wedge to her lips. She took it between her teeth complacently.

Both of his hands now free, he took her hips gently and pulled her close enough for what he did next, which made Lisa's throat feel tight with a vicious rise of emotions. Lowering his dark head, he licked an erratic path over the neckline of her black sweater. All she could think about was that it wasn't nearly as daring as her own neckline. Nicole's eyes were closed, her arms wrapped securely around his shoulders to keep steady. He stopped for a few seconds to reach for the salt, which he sprinkled over her wet skin. The fine grains clung to her greedily, and he bowed his head again, this time carefully scraping every salty crystal off her skin. Lisa wasn't sure if she or Nicole whimpered. Straightening again, he looked back in search of Julia, who was dutifully holding a shot of tequila.

She handed it over with a pleased grin. Gulping down the shot of tequila without so much as a wince, he turned to face Nicole, slipped an arm around her waist and claimed her lips in a kiss that was blatantly sexual. His lips were open over hers, but he pulled away too fast, leaving her swaying on the spot. The lime was in his mouth, and he had sucked it free of its juice.

Lisa released a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

Someone emitted a wolf-whistle, and the girl standing beside her sighed expansively. Before another cheer could pierce the awed silence, she turned around and fled the townhouse, ignoring Angie's urgently whispered "Lisa! Where are you going?"

The cool blast of air slapped her unapologetically the instant she reached the doorway. She relished in the biting cold and ventured jacketless onto the dimly lit empty porch. The thoughtfully drawn shed over the porch shielded the narrow rectangle from the downpour. Grateful for the relative quiet, Lisa paced the small space relentlessly, mindless of the chill, her thoughts tripping in a race of tireless denial of her insane attraction to Gregory House. She could picture herself in the center of that living room, the Rolling Stone's _No Expectations_ playing hauntingly in the background as he pulled her close enough to feel the breadth of his chest against hers.

"Keeping warm?"

At the sound of his voice, she stopped mid-pace and her head snapped upwards to find him lounging in the doorway, his shoulder propped casually against the doorjamb. He was watching her intently, electric blue eyes animate with amusement. She fought the urge to scoff.

"Yes," she answered stubbornly, meeting his casual countenance with contrived indifference. She was suddenly eager to climb off this emotional rollercoaster and follow the three-pen-bearing girl back to her dorm, but the mischievous side of her was prowling hungrily tonight. She stayed, staring him in the eye, pretending that she wasn't aflutter with anticipation. Cool, calm, collected.

And then he smiled at her false bravado as if he could see through her as clearly as a sheet of glass. Her fragile façade trembled at the devastating effect of his dimpled smile, the flash of straight white teeth. "Go on," he said, making a gesture with his hand that encompassed the narrow porch. "I'm just enjoying the view."

Her jaw dropped open. She tried to glare at him, but the easy charm in his laughing eyes made it hard to do anything but smile sheepishly. "Are you always this…" she trailed off, at a loss for words and waved her hand at him.

"Charming and good-looking?" he supplied cheekily.

She was inclined to agree but rolled her eyes diffidently instead and on a whim walked towards him. She stopped four steps shy of the doorway, hesitant over crossing the imaginary line entitling each of them to their personal space. She considered him for a minute, surprised at the comfortable silences that constantly engulfed them. "Where did you learn how to do that?" she wondered out loud.

He crossed one Converse-clad foot over the other, and in the shadowed doorway with his electrifying eyes trained on her, he looked like something out of a magazine. "Body shots are something I picked up in London," he paused to rub his palm across his stubbly jaw. "About ten years ago," he added.

Her eyes grew as wide as saucers. "How old were you?" she asked incredulously.

A small smile curved his lips at her blatant astonishment. "Sixteen. Best night of my life," he remarked musingly, and then his gaze turned dark as a frozen lake in December. The slow smolder in his eyes brought August to mind. "So far," he murmured reflectively.

She swallowed, hoping he didn't notice how tight her throat felt or how much harder it had become to breathe evenly. She forced a breath of nonchalant laughter. "You're not very subtle."

"Subtle is for sissies," he said dismissively and uncoiled his large frame, coming to his full height. Her heart was beating twice as fast as normal even before he took two steps in her direction, unapologetically crowding her personal space. The exhilarating smell of soap and rain and man made her eyes flutter shut.

"Greg?" she whispered uncertainly, but she couldn't move away. He was a few scant inches away, and his warmth was almost tangible – strong arms, wide chest, piercing eyes and a mouth made for sin. Through her lashes, she could see his lips part slightly, and his body lean towards hers as if drawn by some invisible force. "What…"

"Shut up," he said softly, and he lifted his hand to lightly touch her cheek. His fingertips danced across the line of her jaw, chasing the cold away. He lowered his head until she could feel his breath tickling her lips apart.

She curled her fingers into the hem of his white t-shirt and felt him inch closer. The worn material of his jeans was soft where it brushed against her bare legs. "What are you doing?" she whispered with bated breath because she couldn't think of anything else to say. She wanted to tell him to stop, that this was ridiculous, that they barely knew each other and it was ten shades of inappropriate that his fingers spanned her neck in a touch so delicate it made her breasts tingle.

"Tension relief," he grunted before his lips lightly grazed her own. She closed her eyes and braced her hands on his broad shoulders, all rational thought fleeing her mind. At her touch through the soft cotton, he slid his arms around her and parted her acquiescent lips with his. He kissed her with melting hunger, boldly exploring her mouth with his tongue, drawing her tighter to the hardening contours of his body. He tasted like fruity candy and beer with the unmistakable tang of lime. Senses acutely awakened, she leaned into the solid warmth of his body and began to kiss him back. When she stroked the roof of his mouth with her tongue, he groaned and whatever self-control he seemed to possess snapped. He turned them around effortlessly and backed her against the brick wall beside the open door. The hard surface bit into her back as he pressed himself against her – all muscle and heat and sinew – catching her gasp in his torrid kisses.

His tongue ravaged her mouth, his body slowly rocked against hers, and her breasts made soft impressions on his t-shirt as they pushed into his chest. He trailed his hand from her waist to her shoulder, and then slid his knuckles down the soft skin of her throat to the swell of her left breast.

"Lisa—oh!"

The startled voice was like a gunshot, and they sprang apart. Lisa was grateful that the wall absorbed her listless weight. She didn't think her wobbly knees were up to the task. Sagging in relief that it was Angie in the doorway, she snuck a glance at him out of the corners of her eyes. He stood almost two feet away, both hands shoved into the front pockets of his worn jeans as if he didn't trust them to stay put. She flushed and looked away, biting her tender lip furtively.

"Wow, I didn't expect that," Angie mused, dividing an amused but tempered look between the two of them. "Don't you know to choose somewhere more private if you're taking _that_ kind of walk?" she admonished them like an aggravated parent.

Greg grinned at her unabashedly, and Lisa cast her eyes downward, staring at her shoes. He took his right hand out of his pocket and ran it through his dark hair. "Got a little carried away," he confessed and then winked at her like this was a joke they could share.

Angie laughed. "Your girlfriend is looking for you."

His stare hardened in irritation and he heaved a large breath. "She's not –"

"Greg!" Pushing past Angie, Nicole flew through the doorway and launched herself into his arms, putting a premature end to whatever he had been about to say. He caught her obligingly, lips twisted grimly as he met Lisa's eyes over Nicole's blond head. "You're impossible to keep track of today," she scolded him, gazing up at him prettily.

Unable to stomach the sight of them together when she could still feel the burn of his stubble on her lips, Lisa walked into the hallway by the entrance, Angie close at her heels. She dug her purse and jacket from under a pile of clothes, ignoring the unbound curiosity in Angie's watchful eyes.

"What…"

"Don't," she said firmly, cutting her off as she slid her jacket on and dug a patterned umbrella out of her purse.

Angie wisely stayed back, frowning in palpable concern. "Alright," she conceded, but her tone implied this was far from the end of it. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She nodded and steeled herself when she strode out to find them talking in quiet tones, both of them frowning. Sparing half a glance in their direction, she swept past them with every intention of leaving without acknowledging their presence.

"Lisa?"

His voice stopped her before she could descend the porch stairs, umbrella perched to protect her from the rain.

"It's raining. Maybe you should wait until it lets up," he suggested, and the way his eyes widened was almost pleading.

"I have to leave," she answered curtly. "Bye." She waved at the two of them awkwardly, resenting the false smile Nicole flashed at her.

As she hit the street, and the rain pelted her with a vengeance, she looked back at them standing on the porch under the soft lights. His back was to her, and Nicole's hands rested lightly on his shoulders.

A jolly box of fruity Mike & Ike stuck out of his back pocket like a sore thumb. Ignoring the violent flutter in her stomach, she turned around and walked along the bleak street.

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A/N: Reviews are love. :-) Also if you're interested in helping me out by beta-ing which I would very much appreciate, please drop me a note.


	3. Wicked Game

Author's Note: I have no speech. I can't explain the update gap. My muse has been terrible. Thank you all for reading and reviewing. I love reading your thoughts. I hope you enjoy this latest installment. I have so many plans for this story, I just wish I had the discipline (and the time) to hash it all out. Oh well, I'm still trying and will continue to do so. Thank you for continuing to read this!

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**THREE: Wicked Game**_  
My hopes are so high that your kiss might kill me,  
So won't you kill me, so I die happy?_  
_(Dashboard Confessional – Hands Down)_

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_The sound of rainfall prattled insistently behind him, moist and furious, but he barely heard it over the harsh sounds of cold air desperately dragging into his starved lungs._

_The mad tempo of rain and heavy breathing was a dark cadence to their tense interlude. She didn't seem to mind the weather or the fact that he was pressed up against her, trapping her between his heaving chest and the yellow brick wall. Her hands were small and warm as they smoothed over his bare forearms, from wrists to elbows, and then all the way up to his shoulders, where they clung like the refugees of a shipwreck. He could feel every breath she took gusting into the side of his neck, hot and damp – a sharp contrast to the torrents of rain. The way her thigh slid between his legs drove him a little bit crazy._

"_You're a tease," he hissed accusingly, the words rustling the curly wisps of dark hair at her temple. When she laughed throatily, he pulled back just enough to take her in. Lisa Cuddy made a glorious picture in her wild abandon, head thrown back against the brick wall, baring the graceful column of her throat, midnight black hair scattered wantonly against the yellow bricks. The dim light from the hallway of Julia Wheaton's townhouse threw a golden shape across the flawless line of her jaw. A slight smile of amusement played against the luscious line of her lips. He ached to kiss it off, but somewhere in the insanity of their sexual haze, they'd begun a tacit power play that Gregory House wasn't about to lose. He growled at the seductive dance of her soft fingertips through his hair, tugging him closer. He obliged her, groaning audibly as her lips grazed his stubbly chin._

_She slid one hand under his shirt, light fingertips tracing grotesque patterns across his stomach and lower back. Her taunting mouth smiled against his cheek. "Kiss me," she breathed into his ear. The fine hairs at the back of his neck stood attentively, and the arm he had wrapped around her narrow waist hauled her closer. _

_Struck by sudden inspiration, he lowered his lips to the crevice between her neck and her shoulder and kissed her there. She arched into him with a low moan, the fingers of her left hand curling into his hair to hold him close. He was enveloped by her sweet scent, something subtle, unaffected and graceful, yet perfectly sophisticated. Grinning against the baby soft skin of her neck, he left a trail of kisses from her delicate collarbone to her jaw. When he ran the tip of his tongue along the underside of her jaw, she clasped his face with both hands, raising it to meet his twinkling gaze with smoky blue eyes. _

"_Damn you," she whispered in defeat before crushing his lips under hers desperately, and Lisa kissed like she meant it – hungry and hot and intense. He moved his palms from her waist to the tops of her thighs, easily finding the deliciously short hem of her teal dress. It dragged upwards as he slid his hands under it, smoothing them around her bare thighs until they rested on her tight buttocks. She was still kissing him fiercely, molding herself to him like she wanted to melt into him. He squeezed firmly, shifting her compact frame so that she fit perfectly against him, and she made the sexiest sound into his mouth before releasing his lips to catch her breath._

"_You don't play fair."_

Gregory House was walking down South University Avenue a little earlier than usual, mouthing the lyrics to the Eagles' _Hotel California_ like he believed giving his lips something to do might purge her taste from his mouth. The Ann Arbor morning was mercilessly cold, having arrived at the heels of a rainy night, but the weather and the music blaring from his headphones did little to distract him from the real reason he had left his apartment in a hurry. His hair was still damp from the morning's much-needed cold shower. He'd had a vivid dream about Lisa Cuddy, which would have been far more colorful had his alarm clock forgotten to rudely shrill the hour. In retrospect, he was grateful for the loud contraption. He felt too old and world-weary to be having wet dreams about anyone at all.

Tugging at the strap of his guitar case, he ran his thumb down the tiny ridges distractedly. Don Henley was crooning about mirrors on the ceiling and pink champagne on ice when he pressed his free palm to Al's glass door, pushing it open easily. Amanda would admonish him for leaving a handprint on the door. The thought barely registered in his mind as he paused in the doorway with his trained gaze narrowed on her. The subject of his ardent dream was sitting in her quaint corner, sipping black coffee out of a white mug and reading her fresh copy of _Gray's Anatomy_. He wanted to believe it was mundane to find her exactly as he'd expected her, but he could almost feel her against him in the darkness, soft curves and fine bones. And the image nearly made him hard again.

A hand landed on his shoulder, gently smacking him through the fine leather of his worn black jacket. He snapped his head around to find Amanda standing a foot shorter than him, her lips moving in a slew of mute words. He slid his headphones down to his neck and grinned at her indignation.

"… gimbo, you're letting in all the cold air!" she scolded him. "And you left dirt on my door," she complained, giving him a small frustrated push. Relenting, he moved forward and the door swung shut with the familiarly light jingle of chimes. Lisa didn't look up, far too taken by the black-print to notice him or the melodrama he had caused.

"Morning, Mandy," he said finally, to which she rolled her eyes affectionately.

"You are obsessed with that girl," she accused, her voice dropping to a conservative whisper as she crossed her arms over the blue apron and met his annoyed gaze with perceptive chocolate-brown eyes.

He scoffed. "I am not!" he protested with a dark frown. "There's a difference between curiosity and obsession," he explained, but the words sounded empty when she raised her eyebrows dubiously. "This is _curiosity_," he asserted, and the emphasis on words made her grin like she'd made a point.

"You're treading a _very thin_ line," Amanda answered, mimicking his urgent tone teasingly."This," she began, making a gesture to encompass him and Lisa Cuddy, who was oblivious to the world save for _Gray's Anatomy_. "This looks a lot like obsession."

Greg huffed impatiently. "We're friends," he stated. "In fact, you should bring my latte over to her table."

Amanda let out a breath of amused laughter and shook her head at him. "You're determined. I'll give you that."

"Thanks," he muttered wryly.

"Are you playing today?" she asked, her chin pointed towards the black guitar case slung over his shoulder.

He nodded. "Rehearsals in the auditorium after lunch. Wanna come?"

She looked away to divert his gaze. "I don't think I can," she said quickly, waving her hand before his face. "Maybe some other time."

"You should come today," he insisted. "Bring George. He loves to see us play. I'll teach him the chords to Twinkle Twinkle or something equally outrageous," he grinned.

"And your girlfriend will get her panties all up in a bunch," she joked, but he could tell the humor was a terrible attempt at deflection.

"Nicole?" he asked incredulously. "What does she have to do with it? I don't even know if she's going to be there."

She shot him a skeptical look. "She's always there."

He frowned again, deeper this time because he disliked the way his friends perceived his relationship with Nicole. What he disliked even more was the role Nicole was trying to play in his life. "Did she say anything to you?" he prodded.

"No!" she exclaimed in vehement denial. Amanda was a good liar, but he'd known her long enough to discern the unnatural way her eyes widened when she was hiding something. He cast a hurried sideways glance over the café, spotted Lisa draining her mug of coffee and decided to let the lie slide for now. "Forget I said that. I'll see about passing by today. Now go sit with dream girl before she notices you've been standing here staring at her like it's nobody's business for the past ten minutes."

"Alright, see you in a bit." He gave her a quick smile and wove his way through the occupied tables to Lisa Cuddy's side.

He stopped behind her chair and peered over her dark head at the page she was intently perusing.

_Myology. The Muscles of the Scalp._

There was a pink and white diagram depicting the human head. The sharpened tip of her pencil was hovering over the base of the skull, tapping once and then moving to the forehead in an absentminded seesaw. The scent of her perfume was impossibly distracting. Impulsively, he reached over her shoulder and took the red eraser of her pencil between thumb and forefinger. She looked up sharply, blue-gray eyes widening in surprise. He met her gaze with a small smile and then looked back at the book before she could say anything. He guided the pencil below the ear and across the sketched jaw, and she followed the motion silently, her own fingers still wrapped around the slim object, her eyes now fastened on their synchronized hands. The graphite touched the white page under the weight of both their hands, and they traced a barely visible shape around the mouth and jaw.

"Kissing pretty much works the entire area," he told her, his frank voice more scientific than suggestive. In the shattered silence, she let go of the pencil, leaving it to his clever hands.

"House," she murmured in greeting, straightening in her chair as he walked around her to claim the chair to her right.

Sliding his backpack off his left shoulder, he let it hit the floor with a faint thud and then steadied his guitar against the wall with infinite care. "House?" he repeated incredulously when he was finally seated and twirling her pencil between all five fingers. She was watching the feat with reluctant fascination. "Last night it was Greg."

She shrugged the slim row of her shoulders under an oversized white button-up shirt cinched at the waist by a broad black belt. He was tempted to count the buttons left undone at the top, but she had a thick patterned scarf wrapped around her neck, making the task impossible. "Everyone calls you House," she pointed out and pretended to read from the book to mask the small frown denting her brow.

Nicole didn't call him House. He knew she had picked up on it, could almost hear the unspoken part of her statement, and he bit the inside of his cheek in frustration. "You don't," he said with finality and leaned back into his chair.

She ignored his assertion and flipped the page. Lifting her head, she glanced at the instrument behind him with barely checked curiosity. "You play?" Lisa asked, shifting her gaze to his.

He scrutinized her, noting the rise of color in her cheeks and the way her eyes couldn't seem to linger on him for longer than ten seconds at a time. "A little," he lied. "Do you?" he fired back.

She shook her head with a burst of uncensored laughter that faded into a slight private smile he didn't know what to make of. "God, no," she muttered finally. "I took piano lessons for a few years back in New York. It's impossible to find time to practice," she admitted as if this had turned into self-reflection instead of small-talk. He found himself enthralled by the nostalgia residing in her eyes and the unguarded smile on her face as her mind forayed into the past – a memory that was obviously happy softening her features. "I don't play anymore," she said suddenly, meeting his curious gaze with sober, cautious eyes. She felt like she had over-shared. It was evident in the way her lips curved inwards, and it was almost endearing. She had loved playing the piano.

"Favorite piece?" he asked, though he couldn't imagine why he cared.

"Moonlight Sonata," she replied unhesitatingly. "It starts out hauntingly dark and lonely – just beautiful. By the third movement, there's an outpouring of reluctant hope, almost like he's afraid to hope," she explained.

He studied her with quiet fascination. "You know how to play it?" he asked.

She shook her head wistfully. "Not all of it."

"One latte," Amanda announced from behind them, and they both turned to look at her as she placed the tall mug on the table before him. "And coffee refill," she added, using a carafe to refill Lisa's empty mug.

"Thank you, Mandy," he began with a large grin and took an immediate sip out of his latte. "These keep getting better," he said in mock astonishment.

Amanda smiled at him much as one would smile at a wayward child. "I think Al just keeps adding sugar," she said dryly, turning to Lisa with a warm smile. "Hello, Lisa."

"Hi Amanda, busy morning?" she asked, her gaze scanning the busy café.

Amanda shrugged prettily and out of habit, she dug into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a clean tissue, using it to laughingly wipe whipped cream off his nose. "No more than usual," she replied, looking back at Lisa whose smile had dwindled into a tightlipped curve.

Foreseeing the impending silence, he shot Amanda a thoughtful glance. "I should cut back on caffeine. It's ruining my roses-and-cream complexion," he said with faux flare, tossing his head to the side in contrived vanity.

Amanda laughed and touched his shoulder lightly. "We wouldn't want that," she agreed with a tickled grin. Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see Al waving her over and was grateful for the diversion. "I'll catch the two of you later," she said in parting, dividing an amiable smile between him and Lisa before rushing to the counter where Al handed her a loaded tray.

When he turned back to his silent companion, he found her still staring after Amanda with an expression that was caught halfway between curiosity and envy.

He expertly hid an amused smile. "Lovely girl," he remarked, and her gaze swung back to his almost guiltily. She was terrible at hiding her emotions. "Have you met her son?"

Lisa gaped at him in genuine surprise. "She has _a son_?" she repeated.

Greg nodded and reached for his mug, taking a long gulp before resetting it on the table. "George," he paused to take another sip of his latte. "He's five, goes to preschool – smart kid."

"Oh," she said dismissively and reached across the table to take her pencil from where he'd left it beside his mug. She used it to nonchalantly scribble something into the margin of the page she was on like she didn't particularly care that he knew Amanda's child. When he didn't offer an explanation, she continued to pretend to read through the block of text, underlining words occasionally.

He narrowed his gaze on the tip of her pencil as she marked another line. "_Its union_," he read out loud. "You underlined _its union_," he chuckled under his breath. "Seriously?"

She scowled at the text and then at him. "What do you want, House?" she sighed in exasperation.

"To have a conversation. Why are you so testy?" he asked, his brow furrowed innocently. He could get used to pushing Lisa Cuddy's buttons.

"I'm not _testy,_" she snapped. For a minute, both of them were quiet, then she sighed, more softly this time, placed her pencil in the textbook and closed it. "Where did you meet him?" she asked.

His eyes moved from the textbook to her even gaze, and he frowned in contrived confusion. "Meet who?" he inquired, inordinately pleased by the fact that Lisa Cuddy who kissed like the devil's very own mistress was fiercely possessive.

"George," she answered impatiently.

He shrugged off his leather jacket and neatly folded it over the back of an empty chair. She was watching him with a pensive expression he couldn't read. "Why?" he prodded.

"Because I'm making conversation, like you wanted me to," she shot back, the smile she flashed at him saccharine sweet.

"She brought him here a couple of weeks ago," he told her. "He had chickenpox. We got to know each other. Great kid."

Reaching for her mug of tepid black coffee, she downed a healthy sip before rolling her eyes. "He's five," she said.

"You're implying five year olds can't be great?"

"I'm implying five year olds can be nothing but great."

"I'm sorry about last night."

She stilled as if he'd dashed her with a bucket of freezing water, her gaze fixed on a spot beside her textbook. Opportunist that he was, he took it as a chance to study her. The line of her jaw was sexy. He had never thought of jaws as sexy before, but as Lisa Cuddy sat flustered before him, all he could think about was tracing her jaw with his tongue. He wanted to kiss her again, a kiss as depraved as his dream. The image consumed him as she pulled the book open again, still averting his gaze, deciding to hide behind _Gray's Anatomy_.

Lisa Cuddy would need a little more prodding. He sighed. "Last night, Julia Wheaton's porch, remember? Or was that someone else? I'm sorry."

Her gaze shot to his with a fire that threatened to incinerate him alive, and he had to hide his smile and look appropriately appalled. "No, it wasn't someone else," she said tightly.

"Oh," he muttered, squinting in pretense of conjuring a memory. "You did look a little different, sinfully short dress, sexually frustrated – oh wait, that's still…"

"Shut up."

He grinned, and he knew she wasn't really mad at him.

She went back to scribbling and underlining almost obsessively. "We don't have to talk about it. It was a mistake. We can just be adults about it," she rationalized and wrote down something that didn't even look like a word.

Nodding solemnly, he breathed out deeply in mock relief. "Good, I thought you wanted to get married or castrate me." She glanced at him sharply for equating the two, and he smirked. "It was a terrible, horrible mistake," he agreed, running a hand through his hair. "But like you said, we're adults, we don't have to dwell on it," he trailed off, smiling at her clenched jaw as she continued to vandalize her book. She gave a barely noticeable stiff nod. The laden silence stretched on for two minutes when he reached across the table and stilled her hand with his own, pressing it down, forcing her tense grip on the pencil to relax. When she looked up at him in annoyance, he flashed a cheeky grin at her. "Any chance we'll be kissing again anytime soon?" he asked hopefully.

Though, she would deny it until she was blue in the face, her entire demeanor relaxed and a small smile teased the corners of her lips. "Not if I have anything to say about it," she answered vehemently and slipped her hand from beneath his, closing _Gray's Anatomy_ with finality.

"Then I'll make sure you don't," he promised with a wink. "Where are you going?"

Lisa pulled on her jacket and came to her feet swiftly. "Class."

"We're practicing in the auditorium at around three," he stated, pointing at his guitar. "You could come if you want," he suggested casually.

She furrowed her brow and shook her head. "I have a… thing."

"You're a terrible liar," he declared, leaning back into his chair thoughtfully. "You don't want to come," he observed, and she fidgeted nervously with the strap of her purse.

Nevertheless, she managed to glare at him for the accusation. "I have to be somewhere," she insisted.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Lisa repeated, giving him a dubious look.

"Yes," he confirmed with a nod. "Okay." He checked the clock over Al's counter and turned back to her dumbfounded expression. "Tick-tock. Class will start in three minutes. Better hurry."

Apparently, she didn't even trust him to give her the time right because her gaze drifted to the clock, and that spurred her into motion. She lifted her book, gave him a quick, almost dismissive wave and was hurrying down the street only seconds later.

Greg sighed expansively. This was going to be more difficult than he'd originally thought.

* * *

A/N: Reviews are love. :)


	4. Vignettes of Michigan

Disclaimer: I'm only borrowing for some random play. Thank you, TPTB, for slaughtering these amazing characters beyond recognition.

Author's Note: I'd like to start by thanking you all for the wonderful reviews I've been getting. Every single one makes me feel happy. So thank you! I finally have a clear plan for this story. The next chapter is the last, and it's probably going to up the rating to M. If you lose this fic, that's where you'll find it next time. I've also started writing a sequel for this, which takes us to pre-show times (around the time of the infarction). I'm really excited about this, so hopefully work will allow me enough time to be able to share it with all of you. This chapter is a little longer than usual. I like it. I like writing younger House and Cuddy. They're just lighter - a little happier, not quite as hampered by life and its unfairness. There's hope and denial and sexual tension. It's just fun (which the show has not been for a while now). I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you for sticking with this story!

* * *

**FOUR: Vignettes of Michigan**_  
You're surrounded by a chain-link fence  
That keeps me out but lets me see_  
(Hem – Stupid Mouth Shut)

* * *

Mug of plain black coffee in hand, Lisa weaved her way through Al's café to her corner table where the sunlight and Gregory House had already taken residence.

He sat low in the wooden chair, scuffed Chuck Taylors crossed at the ankles far beneath the table, leather jacket slung over the back of his chair, black t-shirt flaunting Led Zeppelin's '77 tour in a splash of gray and white. There was a frayed hole on the thigh of his jeans that she wanted to trace with her fingertip. His brown hair – finger-combed after a morning shower – was almost auburn in the golden light, and the neglected stubble across his jaw boasted bright red hairs that looked like they were plucked straight out of a campfire. She thought he must have been a blond child, but it was hard to imagine him wearing the innocence of youth. The firm line of his lips was unmoving, almost austere, and for a man who was a few years shy of his third decade, his knowing gaze was far too world-weary.

"Good morning sunshine," he greeted her without looking up, startling her thoughts away. He was reading down a sheet of paper, thick eyebrows caught in a shallow frown.

She hid a smile of amusement and resisted the urge to run her fingers through his sun-warmed hair. "Good morning, House," she said, placing her mug on the table and pulling her book towards her.

"Well," he began with flourish. The paper fluttered from his strong grip to the table before his palm flattened it against the battered surface. "That was an interesting morning read," he remarked with a mischievous glint in his clever blue eyes.

Her narrowed gaze moved suspiciously from his pleased expression to the oddly familiar black print. "Is that my…"

"Syllabus, yes," he offered helpfully and released the paper to her snatching fingers.

"You give a whole new meaning to prying," she snapped, glancing over the sheet quickly. Satisfied that it told nothing but her class schedule for the next semester, Lisa replaced it between the pages of her book and glowered at him.

An unrepentant grin lit his handsome face, and he leaned back into his chair casually, looking her over like he had every right to question her intentions. "Lisa Cuddy, Jewish born and raised, twenty years old, you _think_ you know things about the way the world works. You want to be seen as someone different. You want to stand out. You're overly ambitious. You have a _giant_ chip on your shoulder," he paused, his words like a deadweight in the silence. "But there's another side of you. That other girl just wants to have fun. That girl knows _how_ _to party_," he intoned, and his voice was suddenly low and scratchy, the rasp of it tickling her low in her belly.

That girl had made out with him on Julia Wheaton's porch. That girl would have reached across the table, clasped his infuriating face and pulled him into a punishing kiss. As it was, she breathed out a defensive scoff of disbelief, which wrangled another curious smile out of him. "That's not… you're making that up," she stammered and waved him off dismissively. The pencil she plucked from the table felt soothingly familiar against her fingers. She pretended not to be watching him out of the corners of her eyes as she opened her bookmarked copy of _Gray's Anatomy_.

House reached for his backpack and noisily unzipped the large front pocket. "Your class schedule is overloaded, but none of your classes are before eleven," he said and pulled out what looked like at least five earmarked, worn medical journals. "And no one takes Professor Lamb's course unless they have something to prove. Professor Seagull covers the same ground and is _by far_ the easier grader," he added, dropping his bag to the ground and opening one of the journals. "You wear a trendy little pomegranate pendant behind that locket," he nodded to the golden chain lying against her skin, the pendant carefully hidden under her gray sweater. "A curious choice – the Jewish symbol for fertility, righteousness and mysticism."

She stared at him – speechless, jaw agape.

"Hm," he hummed in slow realization, a triumphant gleam shining in his eyes. He took a chug out of a bottle of water that had mysteriously appeared out of his backpack. "I'm _always_ right," he declared.

She rolled her eyes in denial and tried not to think of how fond she was becoming of their inadvertent morning ritual. "Is that what your mother tells you?" she jabbed.

He tensed. His shoulders stiffened against the back of the wooden chair, but his features were schooled into an unaffected expression. She wondered what had made him tick, but he wouldn't look up at her. Gregory House was much too self-barricaded to let her peer into his gloomy soul. "My mother has failed to recognize the…" he trailed off, frowning out at the street as if the right word had escaped him. "My insight," he corrected and continued to skim through an article.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she probed, itching to reach across the table, catch his chin and make him meet her gaze.

"It means," he began and closed the pages of the journal, keeping his index finger sandwiched between them. "That for someone who isn't interested in me, you sure are nosy," he noted. The smirk just barely touching his lips meant that he knew he had turned the tables on her.

"You're my friend," she objected.

"I am?" He furrowed his brow and tapped a mocking finger against his stubbly chin. "Am I?"

Recognizing the sarcastic deflection for what it was, she plunged forward heedlessly. "So you're daddy's boy," she assumed.

That made him laugh, but there was something dark and sinister about the sound that made her feel uneasy. "I'm his boy alright," he agreed.

"Let me get this straight. You don't like your mother _or_ your father? That's messed up. You have to _at least_ like one of them."

He gave her a lop-sided smirk. "Who came up with that? I do like one of them – sometimes. You don't know enough to make a judgment call. Which one do you like?" he shot back before she could think of a retort.

"Both," came the automatic reply. It felt like it had been drilled into her mind for the past two decades. _Your father and I, we complete each other, darling. We each give you things the other can't give you. I may be a little harsh sometimes, but he makes up for it in kindness._

He absorbed that silently, his incisive blue eyes unnerving in their intent perusal. She ridiculously wondered if he could hear the voice in her head. "A lie," he declared finally, reaching across the table for her mug of coffee. Followed by her glare, he lifted it and took a small sip, wincing at the bitter taste. "This is disgusting. Have I mentioned that you're a terrible liar?"

She shook her head incredulously and plucked the mug out of his hand, ignoring the way her stomach fluttered as their fingers brushed against each other. "I'm not lying. I love both my parents – equally and for different reasons," she rationalized.

Elbows perched on the table, he leaned forward. "That's what your annoyingly upright sense of morality tells you is the correct equation. But you feel just a little happier when it's daddy's voice on the phone and not mommy's."

"You…" she faltered and drew in a quick breath. "Are… extremely presumptuous. You _don't _know everything."

"But I'm usually right. And I am right now."

"I thought you were _always_ right."

"Everybody lies," he stated with a sallow smile.

"Including you?" Given his penchant for hurtful truths, she couldn't think of a reason he would have to.

"Especially me," he replied easily – paradoxically honest. He reopened his journal, relaxed into his seat and began to read, leaving her baffled in the wake of his unsettling admission.

* * *

A rainy Thursday in late November brought Gregory House striding through Al's glass doors with a sky blue Oxford shirt peeking from beneath his leather jacket.

"Have you run out of band t-shirts?" she teased as his backpack slipped down his arm and hit the floor beside her feet.

He scowled as if the outfit physically affronted him. The leather jacket slid off his broad shoulders easily – and did they make shirts _that tight_? Her eyes followed the contraction of his bicep as he ran his hand through rain-dampened hair. She swallowed past the gritty feeling in her throat, suppressing the surge of lust that flowed through her veins. This _had_ to stop. "Doctor Trent believes _presentation is everything_," he mimicked, oblivious to her internal war. "As if Jane Doe cares what we're wearing when we're making life-or-death decisions," he sneered, taking the chair beside hers, completely absorbed by the woes of societal norms.

She wished his smell hadn't suddenly become the smell of her mornings: rainwater and shampoo and traces of deodorant – no cologne for Gregory House. That would be ridiculous and serve no purpose but to be obviously pretentious. He believed in subtle pretentiousness much more. "You have a Jane Doe patient? Amnesiac?" she prodded, derailing her thoughts.

He gave her a curious look, electric blue eyes flickering between her eyes and her neck. "No," he said slowly. "I forgot her name."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Seriously? But you've been shadowing him for two weeks!" she exclaimed.

The challenging glint in his eyes gave her a breathing glitch. "She's epileptic. She's had shingles twice. Her BP dropped four times over the last week, always after a bowel movement. She's abnormally nice and her urine smells like the fish market," he recited from memory, using his fingers to tick off her symptoms.

Lisa looked away to hide the grudging respect and amusement in her eyes. Only House would view niceness as abnormal. "That's disgusting," she told him.

"Sorry for offending your delicate sensibilities, my lady," he retorted in a deep accented voice, sketching a fake bow with one waving hand. "Point is, I know her medical history and her symptoms. Who cares about her name?"

"She's not a list of medical facts," she countered. "She's a person first. You're treating a woman, who has a life, fears and hopes."

"All of which tell me no relevant medical facts. All of which I don't care about," he reasoned and waved Amanda over.

She rebelled against the logic of his statement, her frown deep. "Medicine is about humanity," came her indignant voice.

Shaking his head almost sadly, he fixed his unwavering gaze on her, and she had almost forgotten how arrestingly blue his eyes were. "Nobody fixes people because they're humane. Everyone has an ulterior motive, some self-serving prophecy that they want to fulfill. We all want to do something that makes us feel good about ourselves. It's human nature – increase pleasure, decrease pain. It's the law of the universe."

"And what's your motive?" she challenged, crossing her arms beneath her breasts and leaning back into her chair.

For a moment, House was silent, a small indulgent smile playing on his lips as his gaze fell to her breasts. She felt self-conscious about the way her posture thrust her cleavage against the loose-fitting black sweater. He pursed his lips and looked away. "I like puzzles," he said finally.

"Hey handsome, what can I get you?" Amanda interrupted, and they both looked at her in unison, shaken out of their tacit exchange.

"The usual," he replied. Quick to recover – as always.

"You clean up nice, Greg," Amanda teased and gave him an exaggerated wink.

He smiled winsomely. "Why, thank you, Mandy."

Amanda tousled his hair affectionately and went to fetch his coffee, her absence as sudden as her appearance.

Lisa studied the way the ironed collar framed his neck and brushed against the hair at the back of his neck. She was insanely attracted to Gregory House. "You do look nice." She didn't know she had spoken her thoughts out loud until a Cheshire cat grin claimed his lips. She felt herself blush furiously under his suggestive stare.

"Any chance you'll make out with me?" he half-joked, leaning over the table to crowd her space.

She pulled back and feigned annoyance, pretending that her pulse wasn't thrumming insistently. If he tried to kiss her, she could think of a thousand ways to slide her fingers into his thick hair and draw him closer until it would be hard to know where she began and he ended. "No," she said firmly.

"Spoilsport," he pouted.

* * *

_Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock._

The clock needed to be removed.

Lisa tried to tune out the incessant ticking as she read through her anatomy notes. _Myology _distracted her. It meant nothing to her except the warmth of House's hand over hers, guiding her pencil to the depicted jaw, stating scientific facts about kissing. As if it wasn't difficult enough to forget about kissing him, the taste of Mike & Ike, cool beer, sharp sarcasm, and unbearable yearning. By mid December, he had managed to infiltrate her thoughts at the most inopportune moments. His absorption with her bordered on obsession, and she was becoming dangerously fascinated by him. He was infuriating, abrasive, selfish, brilliant, defensive and sarcastic. Their mornings left her with the urge to either slap him or kiss him – often both. He was a tangle of ambivalence. And he wanted her.

That much was obvious. They both knew they were just biding time. Somehow, someway, she was going to end up in his bed – whether she chose to believe it was coercion or accord was something that would be inspired by the moment. The thought made her flush, and she sighed.

_Tick, tock. Tick, tock._

She glared at the clock over her shoulder, plain black hands patiently tracking time, mocking her thoughts.

"Please don't break it," came Angie's voice from the doorway to their shared dorm room.

Lisa's gaze snapped to the other girl's warm brown eyes. "I can't think with this thing ticking every single second of the day away. It's making me anxious," she protested.

Angie smiled and rolled her eyes in amusement. "It's called sexual frustration," she drawled, strolling into the small room and shutting the door.

"I'm not sexually frustrated," Lisa insisted and turned back to the section on _Myology_. The pink sketch was laughing at her.

"He aced the endocrinology midterm," Angie told her.

"I know," Lisa grumbled, voice colored with reluctant respect. He'd sidled up to her after class, carefully placing his paper on her desk, cautious in his assessment of her façade. _I can think of at least three ways to repay you for this._ He'd said cheekily, and Lisa had blushingly deserted her seat and began to walk away. House's longer strides had caught up to hers in seconds, his hand firm at her elbow as he'd stopped her escape. _You're very competitive_. He'd observed, keen gaze lingering on the full line of her unmoving lips. At her denial, he had chucked her chin with something akin to fondness and flashed a grin at her. _I thought you'd be happy for me._ The mocking sadness in his expressive eyes had drawn a smile out of her. Then his hand had taken hold of hers and pressed her knuckles to his chest delicately. _Band practice tomorrow at five in the auditorium. You really have to show up this time or I'll be _really_ hurt_. Driven by a force that was beyond her control, Lisa had flipped her hand against his warm t-shirt and pressed her palm into the center of his chest almost tenderly. His hand had fallen back to his side silently, his curious gaze inordinately pleased as it studied her serene face. _I'll see you, House_. That and a coy smile had sent her out of the endocrinology lecture hall. They both knew she was going to show up tomorrow.

"Lisa," Angie called out softly, snapping her fingers to lure her out of her reverie. "He's infatuated with you, and you're more than a little taken by him. _You've_ been chasing him down for months. What are you doing?" she asked in exasperation.

Looking away, Lisa sighed heavily. "I don't even know anymore. He's too much, Angie. I'm out of my league and way off my turf. Bad boys are one thing, but Gregory House is something else. He's…" she paused, racking her mind for a description to the magnetic vibe he exuded. "He's jaded," she decided. "Very jaded, very dark and he's known and seen too much. I don't want to compete with that. I just… can't," she breathed.

The look of sympathy that Angie wore made Lisa's stomach feel leaden. "Stop being so cautious, Lisa. If you want him, you can have him. For God's sake, he's following you around like a lovesick child."

She cracked a small smile at the exaggerated truth in that. "And what do you think is going to happen after I stop being so cautious? After I give in to the notorious Gregory House? I'll start following _him_ around like a lovesick child, competing with Nicole to get three seconds of his attention a day?" she asked with disgust.

Angie scoffed and frowned incredulously. "You're comparing yourself to Nicole Donovan?" she sputtered. "She has at most half your brains."

"But twice my looks," Lisa piped in pointedly.

"House obviously doesn't think so," she said and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Lisa threw a blue pen at her and chuckled in spite of herself. "Denial is _exhausting_," she admitted, her tone pensive, and she knew the admission was aimed more at herself than at Angie. The other girl didn't say anything as she sat on her bed and pulled out a notebook that she began to scribble in animatedly.

Lisa Cuddy was done with denial.

* * *

She was thirty minutes late to band practice – not intentionally. Somehow, she'd gotten sidetracked and pulled into a TA meeting that was all the way across campus. She'd sat across the table from Tom White and pretended to listen as he had prattled on and on about neurology, only to stop suddenly, catch a nervous breath and ask her out to dinner. Taken off guard, she'd gaped at him for a few seconds before slowly clearing her throat and making an excuse. Her rejection had settled softly to a humbled smile from Tom, who'd told her to _take care _when she'd said she had to be somewhere and that she was already late.

Now, she walked into the auditorium, carrying two heavy books and the Chanel purse she had snagged from her sister last summer. Well-tuned music was pouring loudly out of the dispersed speakers, the lead singer's voice drawling the final words to the Rolling Stones' _As Tears Go By_. Nobody noticed her arrival except for House. She was so far removed from _taking care _that as their eyes collided in an unintentionally heated gaze, the thought amused her. He was strumming the soothing, melancholy melody on an electric guitar that looked comfortable in its perch against his lap, and his eyes never left her as she made her way to an empty chair in the very back of the theater-style auditorium. The music died a gentle death, fading to nothingness against a small crowd of cheers. House's mouth was pressed to the microphone, and he winked at her when she left her seat in search of a closer row.

Smiling faintly, she trudged down the steps gracefully. Nicole's blond head was unmistakable in the first row with Bill Winters to her right and a redhead to her left. Lisa swallowed her sudden discomfort and sat two rows behind them, averting his unwavering stare because it was suddenly too much.

"… and a one, two, three, four…" he drummed out, tapping the beats against his guitar.

That spurred the music again. She recognized the opening notes to _Sweet Child of Mine _instantly. The liar played the guitar more than _a little_, she noted and couldn't help but remember his quiet admission. _Everybody lies_. Lisa watched as House leaned closer to the microphone, singing a soothing baritone to the lead's soprano. Was there anything he _couldn't _do?

"_Woah, sweet child of mine. Wo__ah-oh-oh-oh, sweet love of mine,"_ which led into the most incredible one-minute guitar solo. He played effortlessly, long fingers nimbly flying over the tabs, keeping perfect time and rhythm. His eyes were closed, lips set firmly in an expression of complete and utter concentration or rapture. He seemed to be in an untouchable, undisturbed flow, and she had never been so enthralled by such a sight in her life. By the time, the notes slowed to allow the rest of the band back into the song, she was catching her breath.

"_Where do we go? Where do we go now? Where do we go?"_

The echoes led the song into its final haunting stretch, which was caught halfway between hope and despair. A last cry of, "sweet child of mine," ended the whole affair on a lingering, upbeat note. A louder round of cheers from the handful of people crowded around the stage erupted. She heard House's voice on the microphone announce, "break for ten, guys." Across the spacious hall, she followed his motions as he came to his feet, running a hand through his damp hair. He was wearing a Guns N Roses t-shirt that she hadn't seen before. The dark gray cotton hung perfectly on the planes of his chest, tightening at his biceps enough to make her mouth feel dry. The large yellow scribble of Guns N Roses was interrupted by two guns wrapped in the thorny stems of two red roses. It was unlike him to wear such a colorful pattern – band t-shirt or not, but it looked good on him.

Drawing in a cool, calm breath, she strode past the chatting groups and made her way to his side, ignoring the dirty look that Nicole Donovan shot her way.

The cocky grin on his lips said he'd been expecting her to show up, and their eyes connected for a minute in silence, exchanging words neither of them dared to breathe out loud.

"You have two problems," he said in greeting and lifted the guitar from his chest to gently set it against the subwoofer beside his sneakered feet.

Shaken out of her haze, Lisa smiled sardonically and crossed her arms beneath her chest, ready for warfare with him. "Do tell."

"Number one," he began, his eyes burning with an intensity that threatened to consume her. "You're sensitive." At her scoff, he quirked one tawny eyebrow. "But someone has bred it out of you. A pushy parent," he suggested. _Check_, she silently conceded. "A verbally abusive boyfriend, an overachieving childhood," he continued. _Check. Check._

He was good. She relaxed the set of her jaw and gave her best impression of a nonchalant smile. She was too far in, and they both knew it. "I'm just _dying_ to hear number two."

He made a _tsking_ sound with the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and she was certain it was the sexiest thing she'd ever heard. "Don't get all defensive on me now," he taunted, leaning into her personal space. God, if she could just let her guard down long enough to press her face into his neck and breathe him in, feel his skin under her lips, the strong thump of his pulse, the pressure of his fingers against her cheek as he coerced her into another breathtaking kiss. "Number two," he continued, oblivious to her racing pulse. "You want me, but you won't admit it because this is a challenge, and Lisa Cuddy never loses a challenge."

This time she let out an incredulous laugh, which he only observed closely. "This is not a challenge. I'm not in the habit of chasing someone else's boyfriend for starters," she said and pointedly threw a look over his shoulder at Nicole who was deep in conversation with Bill Winters, but her green eyes kept drifting towards them suspiciously. "Second and more importantly, I don't even like you, much less _want_ you." She wished her voice hadn't broken a little and that she wasn't so flushed from wondering what else his quick, talented fingers could do.

He chuckled, a knowing smile lingering on the tilt of his lips. "Now that's just a lie," he uttered softly, and there was something undeniably seductive about the way his eyes raked down the front of her blouse, lingering on her breasts and then on her waist before lifting to meet hers. She felt herself blush under his lazy perusal. His grin widened to wolf-like proportions. He had the upper hand and he knew it just as well as she did.

She looked away, resisting the urge to swallow tightly because damn him, he was going to notice and call her on it. "You're very presumptuous," she bit out, defenses still posted.

"Lisa," he murmured, and the way her name rolled off his lips sounded like a caress that brought her head around and all of her barricades crashing. "Come over tonight. We could study together for Monday's exam," he suggested.

And she knew what he was offering. Her entire body tingled at the very thought, her stomach clenched and her heart threatened to beat straight out of her chest and into his palm. "Tonight?" she croaked.

He nodded, eyes full of promise as they followed her gaze to Nicole, who, sensing their stares, threw her head back in laughter at whatever Bill had told her. Bill looked startled by the reaction but smiled nonetheless, clearly pleased by the lovely girl before him. "Lisa," he said again, drawing her attention back to him. "She's not my girlfriend," he stated simply – no promises, no oaths, no expectations. Probably a lie. Four words that meant she _could_ slide her hands under his unseasonably light clothes and seal his maddening mouth with hers. She _could_, but was she going to? He was bad news. She could tell – she could _always_ tell.

She stood her ground, studying him like he did her. "Okay," she replied evenly.

"Okay," he echoed, reaching for a loose strand of her dark hair and tucking it behind her ear. "Too flirty," he explained to her raised eyebrows. "And it's covering the spot where I want to kiss you." He touched the tip of his index finger to the place where her jaw met her ear. As he lowered his head to deliver on his promise, she flattened her palm against his chest and gently shoved him away.

"Not your girlfriend is one thing, but this is just cruel," she chided him, dropping her hand before Nicole could notice their cozy exchange.

Frustrated, he looked away, as if he couldn't understand any emotion besides selfish lust and infatuation. Sympathy was clearly not in his repertoire of feelings. "Fine," he muttered under his breath but only to appease her. He didn't share her concern for the girl across the rehearsal room. That much was evident in the way he stiffened and perched himself on the edge of the unused stage.

"I wouldn't call that playing the guitar _a little_," she mimicked, holding up her fingers in mock air quotes.

The change of topic startled him, but his eyes – like cool untouchable flints of crystal – danced in amusement. "Everybody lies – for one reason or another," he reiterated, and he shifted his stare from hers to her lips. She moistened them in unconscious response. "You have no idea how badly I want to kiss you right now," he said seriously, his quiet admission sending shivers crawling down her spine.

A burst of surprised laughter escaped her lips, and she looked at their uncoordinated feet to hide her smile. With the knuckle of his index finger pressed beneath her chin, he lifted her face. "You're impossible to deal with," she complained half-heartedly.

"I think you like it," he teased, his thumb replacing his index finger and smoothly tracing the line of her jaw.

"House," she sighed and reached for his hand. Gently clasping it, she lowered it back to his side and let it go.

"Are you coming over?" he asked, and his tone was almost urgent like he was running out of patience.

Swallowing past her impulse to take ten steps back, she let out a shuddering breath and met his expectant gaze guardedly. "I don't know," she replied honestly.

He nodded and straightened to his full height. "That's good enough," he said and curved his palm over her hip before dropping a quick kiss on her slightly parted lips. "She wasn't looking," he whispered to her stunned gaze and walked past her casually. "Come on guys, last song for today," he declared, and the band regrouped within seconds.

Her head was spinning as she somehow made her way back to her seat and clutched her purse close to the knots in her stomach. Lips tingling and heart hammering in time to Led Zeppelin's _Babe I'm Gonna Leave You_, Lisa Cuddy knew with unbending, frightening certainty that there was no going back now.

* * *

A/N: Reviews are love. :-)


	5. Cat and Mouse

Disclaimer: And the borrowing continues! Everything belongs to David Shore and co. Fox or NBC or someone really – whoever gives us a season 8.

Author's Note: This chapter finally wraps up House and Cuddy's college story. It has a fair share of mature content so please don't read it if that offends you (or if you're underage). As always, I would like to thank you all for your amazing feedback. It's always lovely to go back and read the reviews for inspiration. Your thoughts and opinions are an amazing boost to my muse, so thank you! Please read on and enjoy – and wait for the sequel!

* * *

**FIVE: Cat and Mouse**_  
Lost in__ a simple game of cat and mouse  
Are we the same people as before this came to light?_  
(Cat and Mouse – Red Jumpsuit Apparatus)

* * *

They were studying.

When she had walked up to his door earlier in the evening, windblown dark hair splattered with the beginnings of a rainy night, her yellow notebook clutched against her chest like a shield, the last thing she'd been expecting to do was study. House had pulled the door open, dressed in his Rolling Stones t-shirt and a pair of comfortable-looking worn jeans, his feet in a pair of ratty innocent gray socks. He'd taken one look at her disgruntled expression and grinned unabashedly as he'd ushered her into the warmth of his cluttered apartment. After a quick assessment of her surroundings, she'd decided that it wasn't _messy_, but there was definitely some form of organized chaos happening. Estranged by his cool façade, Lisa had followed him into the kitchen where his books were splayed on a small square-shaped table. He'd pulled out a chair for her, and so it had begun.

One hour and a half later, they were still sitting around his kitchen table, reading out notes from the last endocrinology lecture, and she was starting to get tired and sore. The small refrigerator droned a soft melody to his detached voice, and one of the neon lights flickered overhead. Her hand flew to her lips as she stifled a yawn. She fought down the bout of disappointment that rose in her chest. He'd obviously had a change of heart. Flirting with a cliff was one thing, but when it came to actually taking the plunge, he had backed out in his innocent gray socks. She ridiculously fixated on the socks, analyzing how they had set the tone to the evening.

"… the pathophysiology of type two diabetes also includes impaired beta-cell function, which is the loss of early phase of insulin release in response to hyperglycemic stimuli…" he trailed off and stared at her faraway look quizzically. "You're not listening," he accused, quirking one eyebrow at her.

Her gaze snapped to his automatically, and she hid whatever regret she felt at coming behind a long-suffering sigh. "I'm tired. And this stupid chair is uncomfortable," she huffed.

The smile he hid sparkled in his amused gaze as it trailed down her neck and to the chair in question. "I forgot to bring out the velvet furniture for your majesty. Next time," he promised.

She laughed self-deprecatingly and rolled her eyes. "This wooden thing is a far cry from my throne," she teased, having found that rolling with the waves of his sarcasm was much more effective than resistance. It always left him a little off-balance, sometimes at a loss, sometimes more playful.

"Queen Lisa Cuddy," he tested the sound of it on his voice. He ran his thumb along the ridges of her notebook, and she tried hard not to imagine the same stroke on her skin. "Queen Cuddy," he decided and smirked as if that tasted better on his tongue. "It suits you."

She raised both eyebrows before dropping her chin into her waiting palm. "Thanks, I guess."

Her sullen posture made him smile, and he reached over to tug at one dark curl that escaped from her studying-inspired chignon. She watched his strong fingers rub the strand apart until the flimsy hairs danced against his fingertips. Her breathing slowed to a leisurely puff that melted into the insistent rumble of his refrigerator. He pulled away quickly, his hands resting on the notebook. His eyes held the kind of gleam that told her he was going to say something that would make her uncomfortable. "You're a control freak, and you want things to go your way. Any misstep in your carefully drawn plans throws you off and makes you delightfully grumpy. Classic princess syndrome," he explained, steely blue eyes alight with humor.

"_Now_ I'm flattered," she breathed out in faux relief. "I don't know what to do with all these compliments you keep hurling at me. Besides, I thought I was queen," she countered indignantly, inuring herself to the undercurrents of his words. Her plans had been thwarted tonight, and she hated that he read her so well. She hated that he knew enough of her thoughts to make him smug.

He cocked his head to the right, scrutinizing her. "Princesses are sweet and pink and… _innocent_. You, Lisa Cuddy, are hardcore," he declared with a soft inflection to his voice that made her lament over the lost evening.

"Again with all the flattery," she taunted because pretense was always easier with someone who knew it well. She pushed her chair back, scraping against the clean kitchen tiles loudly. "I need to…"

"Pee," he cut her off with an indulgent grin.

She blushed in exasperation. "Not exactly what I was going to say, but yes something to that effect."

"Poo?" he asked, face twisted in mock-disgust.

"House!"

He chuckled. "Come on, I'll show you." He left his chair and ushered her out of the kitchen, back into the living room and down a narrow hallway with two opposing, closed doors – a bedroom and a bathroom. He opened the one on the right and waved her in. "Take your time," he teased, which earned him a glare before she walked in and slammed the door shut.

When she returned a few minutes later, he was standing by a bookcase in the living room, fingers busily skimming over an impressive collection of leather-bound volumes.

"What are you looking for?" she asked, walking past the gray three-seat couch to stand behind him.

"I have a book you would find interesting," he muttered distractedly and moved onto the next shelf. "I think I left it in my parents' house." Regret colored his voice, and he sighed before turning around to face her. Lisa hadn't realized she was standing so close until he was looking down at the top of her head, and she could almost feel the heat of his chest on her face. She tipped her head up and gave him a wry half-smile, making no move to step back. It was high time he got a taste of his own medicine, she thought as he shifted from one sock-clad foot to the other.

"Your shampoo smells nice," he observed, striving to sound neutral and shoving his right hand into the front pocket of his jeans to stop himself from touching her.

She noted this with a sliver of satisfaction and kept stubbornly silent, hoping for once to unnerve him.

"You have about one-hundred and twenty eyelashes on each eye. That's more than average," he stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

Unchecked laughter bubbled past her lips and she raised her hand, laying it over the tongue and lip design covering the center of his chest. "Why is it always so hard with you?" she wondered out loud, her giggles fading to the sound of rainfall through the leaky window.

House looked down at her hand on his chest and smiled crookedly, full of wicked insinuation. "Do you really want me to answer _that_?" he asked, raising his eyebrows suggestively, but her frustrated sigh made his expression somber. In a quieter voice, he said, "I don't know."

It was such an honest, raw statement. Their gazes met and held in silence, and her hand left his chest, lifting to his unreadable face. "House," she whispered, her fingertips hesitantly touching the outline of his stubble, the tapered fair hair of his sideburns, prickly and soft – fraught with contradictions like House himself. The guarded set of his jaw weakened at her touch, but he still held himself at a safe distance, eyes bright and unblinking, lips set in a dispassionate line, battling with the impulse to lean into her.

"Lisa," he rasped, voice hot and rough against her thumb, dropping all pretenses of neutrality.

"Hmm," she hummed as his arms slipped around her narrow waist like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to pull her against him. It felt beautiful, all the solid warm length of him, the hiss of his uneven breath on her forehead, the pressure of his hands at the small of her back. She turned her face, pressed up on her tiptoes and kissed him because he wouldn't kiss her. She assimilated the vague notion that he wanted _her _to initiate this. Even as her lips moved against his in small, nipping kisses, she knew she was embroiled in another one of his games, uncertain of the score, neither winning nor losing. She traced the seam of his lips with her tongue, but he wouldn't deepen the kiss. He just held her, close enough that she felt every single part of him against her, pulsing with warmth, but still too far. Her free hand fisted in his t-shirt, knuckles biting into the hard muscles of his chest. "Kiss me, damn you," she grated against his immobile lips.

She felt his laughter all the way down to her toes, the way it rumbled in his chest like something alive, the way it melted in her mouth when his tongue took possession of her breath. She felt everything all at once, rough stubble, soft lips, smooth, wet tongue, straight teeth, and she felt weightless. He kissed her long and hard, until she was dizzy with the taste of him. When she pulled away to catch her stolen breath, she found herself suspended in his arms, his face buried in her neck nuzzling the sensitive skin with damp kisses. His palms slid from her back over her buttocks to the back of her thighs, pushing them upwards, urging her to wrap her legs around him. She obeyed wordlessly, knocking a trinket off his bookshelf in the process, her arms tightening around his broad shoulders.

He carried her effortlessly, trekking across his living room as she drew his wandering lips back to hers for another searching kiss. Her tongue chased his back into his mouth, dipping into grooves and ridges, relishing the temporary triumph as he pushed her up against his closed bedroom door. His hands found her hair and tugged impatiently at the chignon until the dark tresses escaped in one fragrant swoop. The pencil holding them clattered to the ground unnoticed. He fisted his hand in her hair and broke the kiss to run his tongue along the line of her jaw. She whimpered when his other hand cupped her breast through the thick cotton of her blouse, gently kneading the firm mound. He pulled away enough to let her slide down the door, pushing against her roughly when the juncture of her thighs was level with his crotch. He was extremely hard, the jeans barely containing his straining erection as he rubbed against her. Her moan was caught in another kiss that crushed her breasts against his heaving chest. She bit his lip to punish the delicious burn of his stubble.

"Bed," he grunted huskily, one of his arms sliding around her as he pushed the door open. He staggered into his bedroom, barely keeping them both upright since he was intent on tugging the delicate skin at the base of her neck into his mouth and feasting on it.

Lisa Cuddy, cautious and barricaded, was doing _this_. She couldn't find the words to stop him. She should have told him to put her down, snatched her purse and rushed out into the rainy Ann Arbor evening, indignant, denying the fact that she cared about him more than she would dare to admit out loud. He set her down on the bed carefully as if she would break. Her lips parted of their own volition, searching for words again. She wanted to say _something_. He kissed her before she could, and it was probably for the best. One of her hands sank into his hair and the other one slipped under his Rolling Stones t-shirt to explore the smooth skin beneath. She scratched at the dusting of silky hair in the center of his chest, then slid her hand over agile muscles that stretched and relaxed as he moved against her.

He was exquisitely heavy, his solid weight shackling her to his lumpy mattress. It was happening too fast, but she didn't care. She wanted him on top of her, naked, pressed against her, into her in all the right places. She wanted to burrow her nose in his neck, touch it with her tongue and taste the smell of her mornings. He was just as impatient. His fingers slid under the waistband of her tights and underwear, impatiently tugging them both down the length of her legs. She pulled away to yank off her top and his, throwing both garments to the ground. Her bra was divested within seconds, and she had a flash of insecurity thinking of how many bras he had undone before to have refined the task down to an art.

The thought only lasted until his hand covered her bare breast possessively, long fingers deft in their gentle probing. He finessed the crested tip, pinching just enough to lick at the pleasure with a suggestion of pain. When his mouth replaced his fingers, her soft cry echoed loudly on the bare walls of his small bedroom. He pulled her pert nipple into his mouth, sucking hard enough to make her whimper.

"God, just…" she moaned when his mouth moved to her other breast. Wrapping her legs around his lean waist, she pulled him to her desperately. He groaned when she chafed against him like a cat in heat.

He kissed his way up her chest and lavished her bottom lip with his tongue. "You're cheating," he accused and sealed her mouth with his before she could protest.

She returned his soul-crushing kisses with equal fervor, her hands running up and down his muscled back hungrily, savoring his heat, struggling to get closer. She arched off the bed, cementing her lower body to his and curled one hand into his hair, ensnaring his devious tongue in her mouth. She could tell the exact moment he lost control. His kiss became almost brutal. Still in his dark blue boxers, he thrust against her, grunting in frustration at the barrier of clothing. His arm reached past her and fumbled with the nightstand as she nipped at his jaw, tasting a flame-colored hair because it fascinated her. He pulled away to lower his boxers and quickly roll on a condom. It took him exactly five seconds to be on top of her again, and this time when he thrust – hard – he was deep inside her.

He went completely still as if arrested by the reality of it, face burrowed into her neck, breathing her in. He filled her so completely that for a few seconds it was almost beautifully painful. In the stillness, her muscles shifted tightly around him, adjusting to accommodate him.

House moved a little, slid back, his breathing hitched into an uneven rhythm. "Am I hurting you?" he asked, and the thread of worry in his voice pooled like warm liquid at the base of her spine.

"God," she laughed breathlessly, her arms snaking around his broad shoulders. "No. No, you're not hurting me," she murmured and wriggled beneath him impatiently.

"You're just so…" he hesitated and pressed a short, sweet kiss to her mouth. "Tight," he groaned, sliding back further.

"Please," she hissed at the stroke of his fingers down the side of her naked thigh. He needed no further prodding. Whatever shred of control he had left dissolved, and he was pounding into her relentlessly. The room was thick with the sounds of their heavy breathing, their bodies colliding, the scrape of his bedpost against the wall, her soft mews of pleasure and the torrents of rain outside. Heat exploded inside her at the precise moment he broke his rhythm and settled his lips against hers, tenderly coercing them apart. For endless moments, she felt like she was fluttering weightlessly – a feather in an abyss, surrounded by incredible ribbons of color, liquefied beyond repair. Then House made a sound, something animalistic and bare, and shuddered before letting go. He collapsed on top of her, his chest pressing into her with every breath, his mouth against her hair.

Shifting carefully, he rolled to his side and brought her with him, his arm curved around her waist, palm stroking the swell of her hip. The cacophony of noises dwindled into still silence, and her heart quieted to a steady thump that lulled her into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Lisa Cuddy woke up to the soft, distant strum of guitar strings. Prying her blue-gray eyes open, she squinted at the sunlight peeking through the drawn shutters and twisted further into the pale blue sheets. She was completely naked. She realized this as a flood of memories from last night whispered across her skin. The wide bed and its three pillows smelled like House, like her mornings warmed by sunlight, missing the tang of coffee and Al's chiming bells. She listened to the guitar music, allowing the soft notes to soothe her fraying nerves.

The mornings were always awkward. It would be a tentative battlefield while they both figured out their new precarious stances. With a heavy sigh, she sat up and spotted her shirt and dotted yellow underwear by the nightstand. Not exactly the most seductive lingerie, she thought ruefully. Leaving the warmth of House's bed, she picked up the discarded clothes and quickly pulled them on. She steeled herself against the anticipated rebuff and released a long breath before traipsing out of the bedroom on bare feet.

She paused at the arching entryway to the living room.

Clad in a pair of plaid red and gray pajama pants, an unassuming shirtless House was perched on the living room couch, strumming a soothing melody on a vintage-looking mahogany classic guitar. He was singing softly, quiet voice meant more for rhythm than actual artistry, but it still sounded beautiful. The lazy scratch of his voice against the sunlight that poured in abundance through the window above him did something funny to her heart. Her defenses fell, and she stepped further into the living room.

"… I'm a bad boy 'cause I don't even miss her. I'm a bad boy for breaking her heart, and I'm free – free falling, falling. I wanna glide down over Mulholland. I wanna write her, her name in the sky. I wanna free fall…" he trailed off when he lifted his head and caught sight of her, long fingers clasping the guitar tab to stop the resonating notes.

She caught the mellow expression that teased the corners of his lips into a faint smile and itched to make any of it mean _something_. "I love that song," she told him, her approach tentative.

He flashed a toothy grin at her, his eyes roving over her scantily dressed form keenly. "I love your outfit," he responded on impulse.

She smiled indulgently and crossed the patterned dull red rug to claim the empty corner of the couch.

He started playing again, a jovial tune that she immediately recognized. "I-i-i-i-t was an itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka-dot bikini that she wore for the first time today. An itsy bitsy teeny weenie yellow polka-dot bikini, so in the locker she wanted to stay!" he sang loudly, tune exaggerated, blue eyes twinkling merrily.

Lunging at him, she smacked his shoulder lightly. "House!" she scolded him.

Her short-lived assault was thwarted with one strong forearm and an amused chuckle. "You're such a girl," he teased and set the guitar aside. Reaching for her, he caught her around the waist and hauled her, yellow underwear and disgruntled expression, onto his lap. She leaned into the strong curve of his arm, greedily drinking in his warmth as she spread her hand on his bare chest. He grazed her downturned lips with his own and eased her into a slow, soft kiss that felt nothing like last night's fast, demanding probes. This was deeper, leisurely, the erotic sounds of sucking and sliding tongues filling the gaping silence left by his guitar. Her soft hum of approval had him smiling against her cheek as his lips trailed up to her temple, resting against the soothing tempo of her pulse.

"You're very vocal," he observed with a low breath of laughter. "It's such a turn-on."

She blushed and made a fist that lightly connected with his chest. "Shut up," she muttered, rearranging herself in his arms to rest her head against his shoulder. "House, can I ask you something?" she began hesitantly, toying with her demons as she felt his arm tighten around her.

"I'm not going to like this," he assumed in a resigned voice. "Yes?"

She plunged forward – heedless. "Have you slept with Amanda?"

He was quiet for the full length of a minute, and when he spoke it was touched by the defensive snarl of sarcasm. "Have you slept with Al?" he shot back.

Scoffing, she extricated herself from his embrace and reclaimed her cooling spot on the opposite end of the couch. "Seriously? I don't even remember what he looks like. He always has his cap on so low." She made a hand gesture that mimicked the posture of Al's white baseball cap.

House's gaze followed her movements intently. "He does that to get away with checking out your boobs. He's quite fascinated by them," he said seriously and scooted closer towards her, left hand reaching for her chest. He fondled said breast through her sweater, weighing it in his hand before she slapped his wrist away.

"Are you sure that's not you?" she asked dryly, arching one dark eyebrow at his hurt expression.

"I don't hide it. I'm smitten with your chest – absolutely taken. You've ruined all other boobs for me," he replied solemnly.

"You're such a liar." Lisa rolled her eyes at his self-pleased grin. "And a deflector," she added, giving him a pointed stare.

He shrugged, uncomfortable in the cross-examination. "What does it matter?"

"I just want to know," she insisted, meeting his weary gaze with hers intently.

"Yes," came the simple reply.

She didn't expect the ridiculously sharp jab of emotion that pierced her chest. It wasn't like she was surprised. She had suspected it from their comfortable, almost flirtatious exchanges. It was silly to be jealous. She could think of at least six other girls that she knew he had slept with.

"Lisa," he began cagily, hidden once again behind a seamless line of barricades. "Don't overanalyze things."

Determined to dominate the mind games, she fashioned her lips into an easy smile. "I'm not overanalyzing," she denied convincingly, rising to her knees to slip her arms around his shoulders. Beckoned, he pushed her back against the couch, stretching above her.

"Good," he husked before trapping her mouth in a drugging kiss. She gasped when she felt his hand creep into her underwear, lightly teasing the tuft between her legs. His quick, talented fingers were acquainting themselves with the terrain when a loud knock rudely interrupted her breathless whimpers.

Another loud knock made him retrieve his hand and drag himself away from her. "Fuck," he hissed when the unmistakable voice of Bill Winters filtered through the door.

"_House, I know you're in there__! Open up, we need to talk." _

Lisa sat up and cradled his stubbly cheek in her palm. He turned into her touch, closing his eyes when she brushed a chaste kiss against his lips.

"I should go," she whispered. "And you should probably get that."

He nodded glumly and shuffled to his feet. Lisa followed suit, quickly darting into his bedroom as she heard the door open and the two men greet each other somewhat tersely. Gathering her shoes, bra and pants, she slithered into the bathroom unseen. Their slow conversation moved from band practice to exams as she hastily pulled on the rest of her clothes, fixed her hair and finger-brushed her teeth, noting with dismay the purple blemish marring her neck. A few minutes later, she strode, fully dressed, into the living room.

Bill Winters' sharp gaze narrowed on her in surprise, but he hid it well, clinging to a façade of impenetrable composure.

"Hey," she greeted him with a quick smile.

"Hi," he replied automatically.

House winked at her. "Your stuff is in the kitchen," he reminded her, throwing a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of her books. "I'll help you," he offered lamely to which Bill raised his eyebrows.

She nodded and followed House into the kitchen. "Well, this isn't awkward at all," she muttered sardonically as she piled her books and shoved them into the bag he held up for her.

"Nice walk of shame," he whispered back, mischievous eyes fixating on the angry hickey at the base of her neck. She pinched his arm in retaliation. "Ow," he hissed, rubbing the red mark. "You're violent," he complained.

"It looks like I was attacked by a vampire," she groused, allowing him to slide the bag over her shoulder. As she turned to leave, he caught her elbow in one strong hand, pulling her back.

"Hey," he murmured, tipping her face up with the knuckles of his right hand. "I'll see you later?"

Resisting the urge to swallow tightly, she gave a short nod, and he kissed her lightly. Lisa stepped back and made her way to the living room, pausing to give Bill another succinct smile and wave. "See you guys later," earned her two murmured responses before she stepped out and quietly closed the door in her wake.

She ignored the rise of guilt that quickened her heartbeat and lingered by the thin door, listening intently to the muffled voices inside.

"So, you and she…" Bill started.

"Yes," House interrupted. "And it's none of your business," he surmised curtly.

"What about Nicole?"

"What about her? We were never seeing each other exclusively, and we won't be seeing each other anymore," he explained, voice measured and even.

"She's in love with you," Bill snapped, his tone louder, more direct, strangely emotional.

"She's in love with what her friends say about me." There was tired acknowledgment in the words that made her heart feel a little heavier.

"And Lisa?"

The quiet inquiry gave birth to a long pause during which she held her breath and clutched her purse firmly to her chest as if it would thwart any verbal knives. "Who said anything about Lisa?" House said finally.

Bill Winters made a sound that was akin to a chuckle but more embittered. "Isn't she the reason for this sudden reform?" he mocked.

House scoffed in denial. "Not a chance."

"You're a liar, House."

"I've been called worse. Now get out of my house, I need to get some sleep."

"This is not fair to Nicole. You know that. You have to know that," he persisted.

"It seems to me that you're the one who's in love with her," was the clinical, cool reply. "Knock yourself out, Billy. She's all yours."

"You're a bastard…"

Lisa hurried along the hallway and down the stairs, drowning the sounds of their voices with the racket of her feet against the linoleum ground. The cool morning air enveloped her when she stepped out of the building, thoughts racing through her mind uncontrollably.

She couldn't turn into another Nicole Donovan. That was her only certainty as she walked down Oak Avenue.

* * *

She sat curled in his arms the morning before Christmas break, love confessions held in check.

Last week, after leaving his apartment, riddled by the insecurities of his notoriety, Lisa had immersed herself in studying and convinced herself that she was glad he hadn't called or tried to see her. The next day, she had returned from classes to find House in her dorm room, propped against her battered desk, reading a book – waiting for her. One verbal spar later, they had ended up sprawled across her desk, papers scattered around them, his whispers hot in her ear.

"_I think I have a fetish for desks," _had left her in a fit of laughter.

Now, Lisa took in the oddities in his bedroom, touching on a grotesque painting over the dresser and then drifting to the lacrosse stick leaning against the corner, and she tried to complete her mental sketch of Gregory House. "You play lacrosse?" she asked.

He drummed his fingers against her shoulder, like he was coming up with a melody. "Used to, got busy this semester," he answered absently.

"Busy?" she prodded, frowning dubiously. He didn't seem that busy to her. He had enough time to wreak havoc at least twice a week in the university hospital.

"Didn't get along with the coach," he confessed. "We hated each other on principle."

"Oh."

He stirred beneath her, shifting to flip her onto her back and hover over her, blue eyes brilliant as they skimmed her features. "I think I'm addicted," he admitted roughly.

Lisa caught his looming face in both hands and leaned up to kiss his mouth. "To sex?" she queried.

"To you," he murmured against her skin then lifted his head to look at her face. "I've wanted you from the first time I saw you."

Her eyes held surprise as she looked up at him. "You did?"

"I did," he said softly, grazing her lips with his. She remembered those hours he'd spent watching her at Al's, but only from a distance. They had been nameless strangers across a busy coffee shop. Then a name, a pen, an endocrinology midterm, a body shot, a kiss in the rain and mornings full of banter.

She moved to prop her elbow against the pillow and rest the curve of her cheek in her palm. The dark sheet slipped down her chest, baring the tip of one rosy nipple. His gaze latched onto it hungrily. With a half-grin of amusement, she caught the slipping sheet and lifted it to cover her breasts. House harrumphed in protest. "And when _was_ the first time you saw me?" she asked, drawing his wandering eyes back to her face.

"Mm," he hummed, moving his head next to her elbow, and she loved the sound of his gruff voice against her ear. He was so close she couldn't see his face, but he was touching her everywhere, his body pressed to hers from head to foot. The buzz of awareness in her womb made it difficult to focus on his words. "September, it was morning and I was early to Al's. Amanda and I were talking about _The Who _concert when you walked in, harassed by the early rain. I got a hard-on just watching the way your hips swayed in those black tights," he said as he grazed her nipple with the backs of his knuckles. She sucked in a sharp breath and she could feel her wetness, her warmth against his belly. But he didn't enter her. He liked the sweet torture of waiting until it got painfully unbearable. She had a sneaky suspicion he liked to hear her beg.

A wicked thought drew a smile on her face. "Kind of like now?" she asked innocently, pressing closer to his erection. It skated across the inside of her thigh provocatively, and she had to stop the moan that rose in the back of her throat. He closed his eyes and hissed as his hands grabbed her hips, pulling her down to realign their bodies, but she placed her hand on his chest to stop him. She pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. "I have to go," she whispered.

His eyes flew open. "Now?" he choked out.

She hid her smile against his jaw and tugged at his earlobe with her teeth before flicking it with her tongue. Her breathy sigh tickled his sideburn. "Yes."

"Ten minutes," he argued, skillful hands exploring her sides.

"I'm already late," she stated, pulling out of his arms and sitting up. His audible groan made her smile victoriously.

"Lisa, please, come back. Five minutes," he bargained.

Looking over her naked shoulder, she raised one eyebrow at him. "Really?" she asked, scrunching her nose.

The lazy smile on his face made her chest tighten. "Okay, more like ten, I promise you'll love it."

She rolled her eyes and was about to leave the bed when he encircled her slim waist with one arm, flattening her against the bed. Her protests were silenced by his kiss. "Tease," he mumbled against her lips, but he was already between her legs, his knee gently coercing her thighs to part. "Please," he begged, but he knew he had her. She wasn't going anywhere now. "Please," he repeated because he _knew_ her. He understood her game and her penchant for getting even. Her hands slid over his shoulders, breasts firm against his chest. "You're so competitive," he accused, pushing into her in one long stroke. She made a sound that she had no name for. "Lisa Cuddy, the alpha female," he teased mercilessly, thrusting hard and fast, slowing down when he felt her tense.

Her nails scraped his back bitingly. "House, shut up," she ordered. The building sensation stole her breath as he brought her to the brink and pulled her back. When his teeth raked down the slope of her breast and lightly nipped at her nipple, she felt herself collapse around him.

He came seconds later, breathing hotly against her neck, dropping small random kisses on his path back to her mouth. He kissed her softly. "La petite mort," he whispered, sucking on her bottom lip. "I told you, ten minutes."

She evened out her breathing and covered his demanding mouth with her hand. "You're such an arrogant ass."

"I love you, too," he laughed.

Pushing into his shoulder, she turned away and sat up to hide the onslaught of emotion wrought by his callous words. Her feet tentatively touched the cool ground. Somewhere between sex and mockery, she had fallen a little bit in love with Gregory House, all closely held precautions shattered. Her stomach squeezed in an emotion that felt dreadfully like panic. "I really do have to go," she said, striving to make her voice lighter than her thoughts. She felt his warm hand at the nape of her neck, sliding down her naked spine languorously, counting the ridges with his fingertips. The touch was almost tender.

"You're flying out to New York later today?"

"Yeah, I'm already packed," she sighed, rolling her neck from side to side as the time from the clock on his nightstand jumped at her. She could feel his eyes on her as she walked to his dresser where her clothes were neatly folded. He hadn't asked for her number at home, and she tried not to let that bother her. "I'm going to have to take a shower here and go straight to the meeting with my mentor."

"Need a shower buddy?" he asked hopefully.

With her clothes piled in her arms, she shot an amused look at him. "No, I'm good," she said archly.

When she came out of the shower, dressed and ready for her meeting, she found him sitting on the living room couch in his boxers, bowl of cheerios in hand as he flipped through the channels on a black-and-white television he had wheedled out of a lesser mortal two streets down.

"See you in a couple of weeks?" she asked. He was spending Christmas at Ann Arbor, shadowing a recently joined doctor who specialized in diagnostics – a disaster waiting to happen.

He grinned at her indolently, like a large cat lounging on the grass after a delicious meal. "Preferably without any clothes on." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, deposited both the remote and the bowl on the table and came to his feet. He plucked his black cashmere scarf from the coat rack jammed between the couch and the armchair and walked towards her. "You have like three monstrous hickeys," he explained as he haphazardly wrapped the fine material around her neck.

It smelled like him, and she tamped down the swell of emotion in her throat. "And whose fault is that?" The words weren't as sharp as she had meant for them to be.

"Yours," he replied with faux petulance. Satisfied with his handiwork, he gave her a guilty smile and draped an arm around her narrow shoulders, leading her to the door. Before she could open it, he swooped down and left a lingering kiss on her lips.

"Mm," she murmured, absently caressing his scruffy cheek. "I'm out of here."

"You could always skip that meeting…"

Rolling her eyes, she pulled her hair from under the scarf, opened the door and stepped out of reach. "Goodbye, House," she said firmly and pulled the door shut to the image of his smiling blue eyes.

If she had known the next time she would see him, it would be four years later, she would have kissed him again – once or twice just to cement the memory. She would have even stayed.

As it was, she walked down his street that Thursday morning with a bounce in her step, his scarf around her neck, an exquisite ache between her thighs and a faint smile on her face.

Lisa Cuddy would never be the same again.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading and sticking around! I know it ends a little abruptly, but I wanted to convey that that's how it feels for Cuddy as well. One moment, they're kissing by his doorway, still playing all his crazy games and the next she's back from Christmas break and he's just gone – no explanations, nothing. The sequel, which takes us to pre-show times (the time of the infarction to be more precise), will be posted soon and will touch on the premature end to their college romance. It's House / Cuddy centric and will include some Stacy since she was part of House's life at that point.

Reviews are love! Thank you again for reading!


	6. Author's Note on Sequel

Dear (best) readers (ever),

As promised, the sequel to this story, entitled _The Sky Falls,_ has now been posted.

Thank you for reading and for all your wonderful reviews! They keep me going in light of the craziness in canon! :)

I hope you enjoy the second part of House and Cuddy's story.

xo


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